LORE   OF  I;  ::: 

PROSERPINE 

. 

MAURICEVHEW 


. 


^55" 
'  JLc 


BOOKS  BY  MAURICE  ^WLETT 

PUBLISHED  BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

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LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 


LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 


BY 

MAURICE  HEWLETT 


"  Thus  go  the  fairy  kind, 
Whither  Fate  driveth;  not  as  we 
Who  fight  with  it,  and  deem  us  free 
Therefore,  and  after  pine,  or  strain 
Against  our  prison  bars  in  vain; 
For  to  them  Fate  is  Lord  of  Life 
And  Death,  and  idle  is  a  strife 
With  such  a  master  .  .  ." 

Hypsipyle. 


CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
NEW   YORK       :      :      :      :       1913 


COPYRIGHT,  1913,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  April,  1913 


,7 


TO 

DESPOINA 

FROM   WHOM,   TO   WHOM 
ALL 


259879 


PREFACE 

I  HOPE  nobody  will  ask  me  whether  the  things  in 
this  book  are  true,  for  it  will  then  be  my  humiliating 
duty  to  reply  that  I  don't  know.  They  seem  to  be 
so  to  me  writing  them;  they  seemed  to  be  so  when 
they  occurred,  and  one  of  them  occurred  only  two 
or  three  years  ago.  That  sort  of  answer  satisfies 
me,  and  is  the  only  one  I  can  make.  As  I  grow 
older  it  becomes  more  and  more  difficult  to  distin- 
guish one  kind  of  appearance  from  another,  and  to 
say,  that  is  real,  and  again,  that  is  illusion.  Hon- 
estly, I  meet  in  my  daily  walks  innumerable  beings, 
to  all  sensible  signs  male  and  female.  Some  of 
them  I  can  touch,  some  smell,  some  speak  with, 
some  see,  some  discern  otherwise  than  by  sight. 
But  if  you  cannot  trust  your  eyes,  why  should  you 
trust  your  nose  or  your  fingers?  There's  my  diffi- 
culty in  talking  about  reality. 

There's  another  way  of  getting  at  the  truth  after 
all  If  a  thing  is  not  sensibly  true  it  may  be  morally 
so.  If  it  is  not  phenomenally  true  it  may  be  so 
substantially.  And  it  is  possible  that  one  may  see 
substance  in  the  idiom,  so  to  speak,  of  the  senses. 
That,  I  take  it,  is  how  the  Greeks  saw  thunder-storms 
and  other  huge  convulsions;  that  is  how  they  saw 
meadow,  grove  and  stream — in  terms  of  their  own 


viii  PREFACE 

fair  humanity.  They  saw  such  natural  phenomena 
as  shadows  of  spiritual  conflict  or  of  spiritual  calm, 
and  within  the  appearance  apprehended  the  truth. 
So  it  may  be  that  I  have  done.  Some  such  may  be 
the  explanation  of  all  fairy  experience.  Let  it  be 
so.  It  is  a  fact,  I  believe,  that  there  is  nothing  re- 
vealed in  this  book  which  will  not  bear  a  spiritual, 
and  a  moral,  interpretation;  and  I  venture  to  say 
of  some  of  it  that  the  moral  implications  involved 
are  exceedingly  momentous,  and  timely  too.  I  need 
not  refer  to  such  matters  any  further.  If  they  don't 
speak  for  themselves  they  will  get  no  help  from  a 
preface. 

The  book  assumes  up  to  a  certain  point  an  auto- 
biographical cast.  This  is  not  because  I  deem  my 
actual  life  of  any  interest  to  any  one  but  myself,  but 
because  things  do  occur  to  one  "hi  tune,"  and  the 
chronological  sequence  is  as  good  as  another,  and 
much  the  most  easy  of  any.  I  had  intended,  but 
my  heart  failed  me,  to  pursue  experience  to  the  end. 
There  was  to  have  been  a  section,  to  be  called 
"Despoina,"  dealing  with  my  later  life.  But  my 
heart  failed  me.  The  time  is  not  yet,  though  it  is 
coming.  I  don't  deny  that  there  are  some  things 
here  which  I  learned  from  the  being  called  Despoina 
and  could  have  learned  from  nobody  else.  There 
are  some  such  things,  but  there  is  not  very  much, 
and  won't  be  any  more  just  yet.  Some  of  it  there 
will  never  be  for  the  sorry  reason  that  our  race  won't 
bear  to  be  told  fundamental  facts  about  itself,  still 
less  about  other  orders  of  creation  which  are  sum- 


PREFACE  ix 

ciently  like  our  own  to  bring  self-consciousness  into 
play.  To  write  of  the  sexes  in  English  you  must 
either  be  sentimental  or  a  satirist.  You  must  set 
the  emotions  to  work;  otherwise  you  must  be  quiet. 
Now  the  emotions  have  no  business  with  knowledge; 
and  there's  a  reason  why  we  have  no  fairy  lore, 
because  we  can't  keep  our  feelings  in  hand.  The 
Greeks  had  a  mythology,  the  highest  form  of  Art, 
and  we  have  none.  Why  is  that?  Because  we  can 
neither  expound  without  wishing  to  convert  the  soul, 
nor  understand  without  self-experiment.  We  don't 
want  to  know  things,  we  want  to  feel  them — and  are 
ashamed  of  our  need.  Mythology,  therefore,  we 
English  must  make  for  ourselves  as  we  can;  and  if 
we  are  wise  we  shall  keep  it  to  ourselves.  It  is  a 
pity,  because  since  we  alone  of  created  things  are 
not  self-sufficient,  anything  that  seems  to  break  down 
the  walls  of  being  behind  which  we  agonise  would  be 
a  comfort  to  us;  but  there's  a  worse  thing  than  being 
in  prison,  and  that  is  quarrelling  with  our  own  nature. 
I  shall  have  explained  myself  very  badly  if  my 
reader  leaves  me  with  the  impression  that  I  have 
been  writing  down  marvels.  The  fact  that  a  thing 
occurs  in  nature  takes  it  out  of  the  portentous. 
There's  nothing  either  good  or  bad  but  thinking 
makes  it  so.  With  that  I  end. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PREFACE Vli 

THE  WINDOWS I 

A  BOY  IN  THE  WOOD l6 

HARKNESS'S  FANCY 30 

THE  GODS  IN  THE   SCHOOLHOUSE 51 

THE  SOUL  AT  THE  WINDOW 68 

QUIDNUNC 89 

THE  SECRET  COMMONWEALTH Il8 

BECKWITH'S  CASE 129 

THE  FAIRY  WIFE l6o 

OREADS                 ; 2O5 

A  SUMMARY  CHAPTER 227 


LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 


THE  WINDOWS 

You  will  remember  that  Socrates  considers  every 
soul  of  us  to  be  at  least  three  persons.  He  says,  in 
a  fine  figure,  that  we  are  two  horses  and  a  charioteer. 
"The  right-hand  horse  is  upright  and  cleanly  made; 
he  has  a  lofty  neck  and  an  aquiline  nose;  his  colour 
is  white  and  his  eyes  dark;  he  is  a  lover  of  honour 
and  modesty  and  temperance,  and  the  follower  of 
true  glory;  he  needs  no  touch  of  the  whip,  but  is 
guided  by  word  and  admonition  only.  The  other  is 
a  crooked  lumbering  animal,  put  together  anyhow; 
he  has  a  short  thick  neck;  he  is  flat-faced  and  of  a 
dark  colour,  with  grey  eyes  of  blood-red  complexion; 
the  mate  of  insolence  and  pride,  shag-eared  and  deaf, 
hardly  yielding  to  whip  and  spur."  I  need  not  go 
on  to  examine  with  the  philosopher  the  acts  of  this 
pair  under  the  whip  and  spur  of  love,  because  I  am 
not  going  to  talk  about  love.  For  my  present  pur- 
pose I  shall  suggest  another  dichotomy.  I  will  liken 
the  soul  itself  of  man  to  a  house,  divided  according 


2  LOtfE  OF  PROSERPINE 

to  the  modern  fashion  into  three  flats  or  apartments. 
Of  these  the  second  floor  is  occupied  by  the  landlord, 
who  wishes  to  be  quiet,  and  is  not,  it  seems,  afraid 
of  fire;  the  ground-floor  by  a  business  man  who 
would  like  to  marry,  but  doubts  if  he  can  afford  it, 
goes  to  the  city  every  day,  looks  in  at  his  club  of  an 
afternoon,  dines  out  a  good  deal,  and  spends  at  least 
a  month  of  the  year  at  Dieppe,  Harrogate,  or  one  of 
the  German  spas.  He  is  a  pleasant-faced  man,  as  I 
see  him,  neatly  dressed,  brushed,  anointed,  polished 
at  the  extremities — for  his  boots  vie  with  his  hair  in 
this  particular.  If  he  has  a  fault  it  is  that  of  jingling 
half-crowns  in  his  trouser-pocket;  but  he  works  hard 
for  them,  pays  his  rent  with  them,  and  gives  one 
occasionally  to  a  nephew.  That  youth,  at  any  rate, 
likes  the  cheerful  sound.  He  is  rather  fond,  too,  of 
monopolising  the  front  of  the  fire  in  company,  and 
thinks  more  of  what  he  is  going  to  eat,  some  time 
before  he  eats  it,  than  a  man  should.  But  really  I 
can't  accuse  him  of  anything  worse  than  such  little 
weaknesses.  The  first  floor  is  occupied  by  a  person 
of  whom  very  little  is  known,  who  goes  out  chiefly 
at  night  and  is  hardly  ever  seen  during  the  day. 
Tradesmen,  and  the  crossing-sweeper  at  the  corner, 
have  caught  a  glimpse  on  rare  occasions  of  a  white 
face  at  the  window,  the  startled  face  of  a  queer 
creature,  who  blinks  and  wrings  at  his  nails  with  his 


THE  WINDOWS  3 

teeth;  who  peers  at  you,  jerks  and  grins;  who  seems 
uncertain  what  to  do;  who  sometimes  shoots  out  his 
hands  as  if  he  would  drive  them  through  the  glass: 
altogether  a  mischancy,  unaccountable  apparition, 
probably  mad.  Nobody  knows  how  long  he  has 
been  here;  for  the  landlord  found  him  in  possession 
when  he  bought  the  lease,  and  the  ground-floor,  who 
was  here  also,  fancies  that  they  came  together,  but 
can't  be  sure.  There  he  is,  anyhow,  and  without  an 
open  scandal  one  doesn't  like  to  give  him  notice. 
A  curious  thing  about  the  man  is  that  neither  land- 
lord nor  ground-floor  will  admit  acquaintance  with 
him  to  each  other,  although,  if  the  truth  were  known, 
each  of  them  knows  something — for  each  of  them 
has  been  through  his  door;  and  I  will  answer  for  one 
of  them,  at  least,  that  he  has  accompanied  the  Un- 
desirable upon  more  than  one  midnight  excursion, 
and  has  enjoyed  himself  enormously.  If  you  could 
get  either  of  these  two  alone  in  a  confidential  mood 
you  might  learn  some  curious  particulars  of  their 
coy  neighbour;  and  not  the  least  curious  would  be 
the  effect  of  his  changing  the  glass  of  the  first  floor 
windows.  It  seems  that  he  had  that  done  directly 
he  got  into  his  rooms,  saying  that  it  was  impossible 
to  see  out  of  such  windows,  and  that  a  man  must 
have  light.  Where  he  got  his  glass  from,  by  whom 
it  was  fitted,  I  can't  tell  you,  but  the  effect  of  it  is 


4  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

most  extraordinary.  The  only  summary  account  I 
feel  able  to  give  of  it  at  the  moment  is  that  it  trans- 
forms the  world  upon  which  it  opens.  You  look  out 
upon  a  new  earth,  literally  that.  The  trees  are  not 
trees  at  all,  but  slim  grey  persons,  young  men,  young 
women,  who  stand  there  quivering  with  life,  like  a 
row  of  Caryatides — on  duty,  but  tiptoe  for  a  flight, 
as  Keats  says.  You  see  life,  as  it  were,  rippling  up 
their  limbs;  for  though  they  appear  to  be  clothed, 
their  clothing  is  of  so  thin  a  texture,  and  clings  so 
closely  that  they  might  as  well  not  be  clothed  at  all. 
They  are  eyed,  they  see  intensely;  they  look  at  each 
other  so  closely  that  you  know  what  they  would  be 
doing.  You  can  see  them  love  each  other  as  you 
watch.  As  for  the  people  in  the  street,  the  real  men 
and  real  women,  as  we  say,  I  hardly  know  how  to 
tell  you  what  they  look  like  through  the  first  floor's 
windows.  They  are  changed  of  everything  but  one 
thing.  They  occupy  the  places,  fill  the  standing- 
room  of  our  neighbours  and  friends;  there  is  a  some- 
thing about  them  all  by  which  you  recognise  them 
—a  trick  of  the  hand,  a  motion  of  the  body,  a  set  of 
the  head  (God  knows  what  it  is,  how  little  and  how 
much);  but  for  all  that — a  new  creature!  A  thing 
like  nothing  that  lives  by  bread!  Now  just  look  at 
that  policeman  at  the  corner,  for  instance;  not  only 
is  he  stark  naked — everybody  is  like  that — but  he's 


THE  WINDOWS  5 

perfectly  different  from  the  sturdy,  good-humoured, 
red-faced,  puzzled  man  you  and  I  know.  He  is  thin, 
wofully  thin,  and  his  ears  are  long  and  perpetually 
twitching.  He  pricks  them  up  at  the  least  thing;  or 
lays  them  suddenly  back,  and  we  see  them  trembling. 
His  eyes  look  all  ways  and  sometimes  nothing  but 
the  white  is  to  be  seen.  He  has  a  tail,  too,  long  and 
leathery,  which  is  always  curling  about  to  get  hold 
of  something.  Now  it  will  be  the  lamp-post,  now 
the  square  railings,  now  one  of  those  breathing  trees; 
but  mostly  it  is  one  of  his  own  legs.  Yet  if  you  con- 
sider him  carefully  you  will  agree  with  me  that  his 
tail  is  a  more  expressive  remnant  of  the  man  you 
have  always  seen  there  than  any  other  part  of  him. 
You  may  say,  and  truly,  that  it  is  the  only  recog- 
nisable thing  left.  What  do  you  think  of  his  feet 
and  hands?  They  startled  me  at  first;  they  are  so 
long  and  narrow,  so  bony  and  pointed,  covered  with 
fine  short  hair  which  shines  like  satin.  That  way  he 
has  of  arching  his  feet  and  driving  his  toes  into  the 
pavement  delights  me.  And  see,  too,  that  his  hands 
are  undistinguishable  from  feet:  they  are  just  as 
long  and  satiny.  He  is  fond  of  smoothing  his  face 
with  them;  he  brings  them  both  up  to  his  ears  and 
works  them  forward  like  slow  fans.  Transformation 
indeed.  I  defy  you  to  recognise  him  for  the  same 
man — except  for  a  faint  reminiscence  about  his  tail. 


6  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

But  all's  of«  a  piece.  The  crossing-sweeper  now 
has  shaggy  legs  which  end  in  hoofs.  His  way  of 
looking  at  young  people  is  very  unpleasant; — and  one 
had  always  thought  him  such  a  kindly  old  man. 
The  butcher's  boy — what  a  torso! — is  walking  with 
his  arm  round  the  waist  of  the  young  lady  in  Number 
seven.  These  are  lovers,  you  see;  but  it's  mostly 
on  her  side.  He  tilts  up  her  chin  and  gives  her  a 
kiss  before  he  goes;  and  she  stands  looking  after  him 
with  shining  eyes,  hoping  that  he  will  turn  round 
before  he  gets  to  the  corner.  But  he  doesn't. 

Wait,  now,  wait,  wait — who  is  this  lovely,  strain- 
ing, beating  creature  darting  here  and  there  about 
the  square,  bruising  herself,  poor  beautiful  thing, 
against  the  railings?  A  sylph,  a  caught  fairy? 
Surely,  surely,  I  know  somebody — is  it? — It  can't  be. 
That  careworn  lady?  God  in  Heaven,  is  it  she? 
Enough!  Show  me  no  more.  I  will  show  you  no 
more,  my  dear  sir,  if  it  agitates  you;  but  I  confess 
that  I  have  come  to  regard  it  as  one  of  the  most  inter- 
esting spectacles  in  London.  The  mere  information 
— to  say  nothing  of  the  amusement — which  I  have 
derived  from  it  would  fill  a  volume;  but  if  it  did,  I 
may  add,  I  myself  should  undoubtedly  fill  a  cell  in 
Holloway.  I  will  therefore  spare  you  what  I  know 
about  the  Doctor's  wife,  and  what  happens  to 
Lieutenant-Colonel  Storter  when  I  see  him  through 


THE  WINDOWS  7 

these  windows — I  could  never  have  believed  it  unless 
I  had  seen  it.  These  things  are  not  done,  I  know; 
but  observed  in  this  medium  they  seem  quite  ordi- 
nary. Lastly — for  I  can't  go  through  the  catalogue 
— I  will  speak  of  the  air  as  I  see  it  from  here.  My 
dear  sir,  the  air  is  alive,  thronged  with  life.  Spirits, 
forms,  lovely  immaterial  diaphanous  shapes,  are 
weaving  endless  patterns  over  the  face  of  the  day. 
They  shine  like  salmon  at  a  weir,  or  they  darken  the 
sky  as  redwings  in  the  autumn  fields;  they  circle, 
shrieking  as  they  flash,  like  swallows  at  evening;  they 
battle  and  wrangle  together;  or  they  join  hands  and 
whirl  about  the  square  in  an  endless  chain.  Of  their 
beauty,  their  grace  of  form  and  movement,  of  the 
shifting  filmy  colour,  hue  blending  in  hue,  of  their 
swiftness,  their  glancing  eyes,  their  exuberant  joy  or 
grief  I  cannot  now  speak.  Beside  them  one  man 
may  well  seem  rat,  and  another  goat.  Beside  them, 
indeed,  you  look  for  nothing  else.  And  if  I  go  on  to 
hint  that  the  owner  of  these  windows  is  of  them, 
though  imprisoned  in  my  house;  that  he  does  at 
times  join  them  in  their  streaming  flights  beyond  the 
housetops,  and  does  at  times  carry  with  him  his  half- 
bewildered,  half-shocked  and  wholly  delighted  fel- 
low lodgers,  I  have  come  to  the  end  of  my  tether 
and  your  credulity,  and,  for  the  time  at  least,  have 
flowered  myself  to  death.  The  figure  is  as  good 


8  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

as  Plato's  though  my  Pegasus  will  never  stable  in 
his  stall. 

We  may  believe  ourselves  to  be  two  persons,  at 
least,  in  one,  and  I  fancy  that  one  at  least  of  them  is 
a  constant.  So  far  as  my  own  pair  is  concerned, 
either  one  of  them  has  never  grown  up  at  all,  or  he 
was  born  whole  and  in  a  flash,  as  the  fairies  are. 
Such  as  he  was,  at  any  rate,  when  I  was  ten  years 
old,  such  he  is  now  when  I  am  heavily  more  than 
ten;  and  the  other  of  us,  very  conscious  of  the  flight 
of  time  and  of  other  things  with  it,  is  free  to  confess 
that  he  has  little  more  hold  of  his  fellow  with  all  this 
authority  behind  him  than  he  had  when  we  com- 
menced partnership.  He  has  some,  and  thinks  him- 
self lucky,  since  the  bond  between  the  pair  is  of  such 
a  nature  as  to  involve  a  real  partnership — a  partner- 
ship full  of  perplexity  to  the  working  member  of  it, 
the  ordinary  forensic  creature  of  senses,  passions, 
ambitions,  and  self-indulgences,  the  eating,  sleeping, 
vainglorious,  assertive  male  of  common  experience 
— and  it  is  not  to  be  denied  that  it  has  been  fruitful, 
nor  again  that  by  some  freak  of  fate  or  fortune  the 
house  has  kept  a  decent  front  to  the  world  at  large. 
It  is  still  solvent,  still  favourably  regarded  by  the 
police.  It  is  not,  it  never  will  be,  a  mere  cage  of 
demons;  its  walls  have  not  been  fretted  to  trans- 


THE  WINDOWS  9 

parency;  no  passing  eye  can  detect  revelry  behind 
its  decent  stucco;  no  passing  ear  thrill  to  cries  out 
of  the  dark.  No,  no.  Troubles  we  may  have;  but 
we  keep  up  appearances.  The  heart  knoweth  its 
own  bitterness,  and  if  it  be  a  wise  one,  keepeth  it  to 
itself.  I  am  not  going  to  be  so  foolish  as  to  deny 
divergences  of  opinion,  even  of  practice,  between  the 
pair  in  me;  but  I  flatter  myself  that  I  have  not  al- 
lowed them  to  become  a  common  nuisance,  a  cause 
of  scandal,  a  stumbling-block,  a  rock  of  offence,  or 
anything  of  that  kind.  Uneasy  tenant,  wayward 
partner  as  my  recondite  may  be,  he  has  had  a 
relationship  with  my  forensic  which  at  times  has 
touched  cordiality.  Influential  he  has  not  been,  for 
his  colleague  has  always  had  the  upper  hand  and 
been  in  the  public  eye.  He  may  have  instigated  to 
mischief,  but  has  not  often  been  allowed  to  complete 
his  purpose.  If  I  am  a  respectable  person  it  is  not 
his  fault.  He  seeks  no  man's  respect.  If  he  has 
occasionally  lent  himself  to  moral  ends,  it  has  been 
without  enthusiasm,  for  he  has  no  morals  of  his  own, 
and  never  did  have  any.  On  the  other  hand,  he  is 
by  nature  too  indifferent  to  temporal  circumstances 
to  go  about  to  corrupt  his  partner.  His  main  desire 
has  ever  been  to  be  let  alone.  Anything  which 
tended  to  tighten  the  bonds  which  held  him  to  his 
co-tenant  would  have  been  a  thing  to  avoid.  He 


10  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

desires  liberty,  and  nothing  less  will  content  him. 
This  he  will  only  have  by  inaction,  by  mewing  his 
sempiternal  youth  in  his  cage  and  on  his  perch. 

But  the  tie  uniting  the  pair  of  us  is  of  such  a 
nature  that  neither  can  be  uninfluenced  by  the  other. 
It  is  just  that  you  should  hear  both  sides  of  the  case. 
My  forensic,  eating  and  arguing  self  has  bullied  my 
other  into  hypocrisy  over  and  over  again.  He  has 
starved  him,  deprived  him  of  his  holidays,  ignored 
him,  ridiculed  him,  snubbed  him  mercilessly.  This 
is  severe  treatment,  you'll  allow,  and  it's  worse  even 
than  it  seems.  For  the  unconscionable  fellow,  owing 
to  this  coheirship  which  he  pretends  to  disesteem, 
has  been  made  privy  to  experiences  which  must  not 
only  have  been  extraordinary  to  so  plain  and  hum- 
drum a  person,  but  which  have  been,  as  I  happen  to 
know,  of  great  importance  to  him,  and  which — to 
put  the  thing  at  its  highest — have  lifted  him,  dull 
dog  as  he  is,  into  regions  where  the  very  dogs  have 
wings.  Out  upon  it!  But  he  has  been  in  and  out 
with  his  victim  over  leagues  of  space  where  not  one 
man  in  ten  thousand  has  been  privileged  to  fare. 
He  has  been  familiar  all  his  life  with  scenes,  with 
folk,  with  deeds  undreamed  of  by  thirty-nine  and 
three-quarters  out  of  forty  millions  of  people,  and 
by  that  quarter-million  only  known  as  nursery  tales. 
Not  only  so,  but  he  has  been  awakened  to  the  signifi- 


THE  WINDOWS  II 

cance  of  common  things,  having  at  hand  an  inter- 
preter, and  been  enabled  to  be  precise  where  Words- 
worth was  vague.  He  has  known  Zeus  in  the 
thunder,  in  the  lightning  beheld  the  shaking  of  the 
dread  ^Egis.  In  the  river  source  he  has  seen  the 
breasted  nymph;  he  has  seen  the  Oreads  stream 
over  the  bare  hillside.  There  are  men  who  see  these 
things  and  don't  believe  them,  others  who  believe 
but  don't  see.  He  has  both  seen  and  believed. 
The  painted,  figured  universe  has  for  him  a  new 
shape;  whispering  winds  and  falling  rain  speak 
plainly  to  his  understanding.  He  has  seen  trees  as 
men  walking.  His  helot  has  unlocked  the  world  be- 
hind appearance  and  made  him  free  of  the  Spirits 
of  Natural  Fact  who  abide  there.  If  he  is  not  the 
debtor  of  his  comrade — and  he  protests  the  debt — 
he  should  be.  But  the  rascal  laps  it  all  up,  as  a  cat 
porridge,  without  so  much  as  a  wag  of  the  tail  for 
Thank-you.  Such  are  the  exorbitant  overlords  in 
mortal  men,  who  pass  for  reputable  persons,  with  a 
chief  seat  at  feasts. 

Such  things,  you  may  say,  read  incredibly,  but, 
mutatis  mutandis,  I  believe  them  to  be  common, 
though  unrecorded,  experience.  I  deprecate  hi  ad- 
vance questions  designed  to  test  the  accuracy  of  my 
eyesight  or  the  ingenuous  habit  of  my  pen.  I  have 
already  declared  that  the  windows  of  my  first-floor 


12  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

lodger  are  of  such  properties  that  they  show  you,  in 

Xenophon's  phrase,  T£  ovra  re  w?  ovray  KCLI  T£  w 
ovra  o>9  OVK  ovra.  Now  consider  it  from  his  side.  If 
I  were  to  tell  the  owner  of  those  windows  that  I 
saw  the  policeman  at  the  corner,  a  helmeted,  blue- 
tunicked,  chin-scratching,  ponderous  man,  some  six 
foot  in  his  boots,  how  would  he  take  it?  Would 
he  not  mock  me?  What,  that  rat?  Ridiculous! 
And  what  on  earth  could  I  reply?  I  tell  you,  the 
whole  affair  is  one  of  windows,  or,  sometimes,  of 
personally-conducted  travel;  and  who  is  Guide  and 
who  Guided,  is  one  of  those  nice  questions  in  psy- 
chology which  perhaps  we  are  not  yet  ready  to  han- 
dle. Of  the  many  speculations  as  to  the  nature  of 
the  subliminal  Self  I  have  never  found  one  to  be  that 
he  may  be  a  fairy  prisoner,  occasionally  on  parole. 
But  I  think  that  not  at  all  unlikely.  May  not  me- 
tempsychosis be  a  scourge  of  two  worlds?  If  the 
soul  of  my  grandam  might  fitly  inhabit  a  bird, 
might  not  a  Fairy  ruefully  inhabit  the  person  of  my 
grandam?  If  Fairy  Godmothers,  perchance,  were 
Fairy  Grandmothers!  I  have  some  evidence  to 
place  before  the  reader  which  may  induce  him  to 
consider  this  hypothesis.  Who  can  doubt,  at  least, 
that  Shelley's  was  not  a  case  where  the  not-human 
was  a  prisoner  in  the  human?  Who  can  doubt  that 
of  Blake's?  And  what  was  the  result,  forensically? 


THE  WINDOWS  13 

Shelley  was  treated  as  a  scoundrel  and  Blake  as  a 
madman.  Shelley,  it  was  said,  broke  the  moral 
law,  and  Blake  transcended  common  sense;  but  the 
first,  I  reply,  was  in  the  guidance  of  a  being  to  whom 
the  laws  of  this  world  and  the  accidents  of  it  meant  • 
nothing  at  all;  and  to  the  second  a  wisdom  stood 
revealed  which  to  human  eyes  was  foolishness. 
Windows!  In  either  case  there  was  a  martyrdom, 
and  human  exasperation  appeased  by  much  broken 
glass.  Let  us  not,  however,  condemn  the  wreckers 
of  windows.  Who  is  to  judge  even  them?  Who 
is  to  say  even  of  their  harsh  and  cruel  reprisals 
that  they  were  not  excusable?  May  not  they  too 
have  been  ridden  by  some  wild  spirit  within  them, 
which  goaded  them  to  their  beastly  work?  But 
if  the  acceptance  of  the  doctrine  of  multiple  per-  . 
sonality  is  going  to  involve  me  in  the  reconsidera- 
tion of  criminal  jurisprudence,  I  must  close  this 
essay. 

I  will  close  it  with  the  sentence  of  another  phi- 
losopher who  has  considered  deeply  of  these  ques- 
tions. "It  is  to  be  observed,"  he  says,  "that  the 
laws  of  human  conduct  are  precisely  made  for  the 
conduct  of  this  world  of  Men,  in  which  we  live, 
breed,  and  pay  rent.  They  do  not  affect  the  King- 
dom of  the  Dogs,  nor  that  of  the  Fishes;  by  a  parity 
of  reasoning  they  need  not  be  supposed  to  obtain  in 


14  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

the  Kingdom  of  Heaven,  in  which  the  schoolmen 
discovered  the  citizens  dwelling  in  nine  spheres, 
apart  from  the  blessed  immigrants,  whose  privileges 
did  not  extend  so  near  to  the  Heart  of  the  Presence. 
•  How  many  realms  there  may  be  between  mankind's 
and  that  ultimate  object  of  pure  desire  cannot  at 
present  be  known,  but  it  may  be  affirmed  with  con- 
fidence that  any  denizen  of  any  one  of  them,  brought 
into  relation  with  human  beings,  would  act,  and 
reasonably  act,  in  ways  which  to  men  might  seem 
harsh  and  unconscionable,  without  sanction  or  con- 
venience. Such  a  being  might  murder  one  of  the 
ratepayers  of  London,  compound  a  felony,  or  enter 
into  a  conspiracy  to  depose  the  King  himself,  and, 
being  detected,  very  properly  be  put  under  restraint, 
or  visited  with  chastisement,  either  deterrent  or  vin- 
dictive, or  both.  But  the  true  inference  from  the 
premises  would  be  that  although  duress  or  banish- 
ment from  the  kindgom  might  be  essential,  yet  pun- 
ishment, so-called,  ought  not  to  be  visited  upon  the 
offender.  For  he  or  she  could  not  be  nostri  juris, 
and  that  which  were  abominable  to  us  might  well 
be  reasonable  to  him  or  her,  and  indeed  a  fulfilment 
of  the  law  of  his  being.  Punishment,  therefore, 
could  not  be  exemplary,  since  the  person  punished 
exemplified  nothing  to  Mankind;  and  if  vindictive, 
then  would  be  shocking,  since  that  which  is  vindi- 


THE  WINDOWS  15 

cated,  in  the  mind  of  the  victim  either  did  not  exist, 
or  ought  not.  The  Ancient  Greek  who  withheld  from 
the  sacrifice  to  Showery  Zeus  because  a  thunder- 
bolt destroyed  his  hayrick,  or  the  Egyptian  who 
manumitted  his  slaves  because  a  God  took  the  life 
of  his  eldest  son,  was  neither  a  pious,  nor  a  reason- 
able person." 

There  is  much  debatable  matter  in  this  considered 
opinion. 


A  BOY  IN  THE  WOOD 

X? 

I  HAD  many  bad  qualities  as  a  child,  of  which  I 
need  mention  only  three.  I  was  moody,  irresolute, 
and  hatefully  reserved.  Fate  had  already  placed 
me  the  eldest  by  three  years  of  a  large  family.  Add 
to  the  eminence  thus  attained  intentions  which  varied 
from  hour  to  hour,  a  will  so  little  in  accordance  with 
desire  that  I  had  rather  give  up  a  cherished  plan 
than  fight  for  it,  and  a  secretive  faculty  equalled 
only  by  the  magpie,  and  you  will  not  wonder  when 
I  affirm  that  I  lived  alone  in  a  household  of  a  dozen 
friendly  persons.  As  a  set-off  and  consolation  to 
myself  I  had  very  strongly  the  power  of  impersona- 
tion. I  could  be  within  my  own  little  entity  a 
dozen  different  people  in  a  day,  and  live  a  life 
thronged  with  these  companions  or  rivals;  and  yet 
this  set  me  more  solitary  than  ever,  for  I  could  never 
appear  in  any  one  of  my  characters  to  anybody 
else.  But  alone  and  apart,  what  worlds  I  inhabited! 
Worlds  of  fact  and  worlds  of  fiction.  At  nine  years 
old  I  knew  Nelson's  ardour  and  Wellesley's  phlegm; 
I  had  Napoleon's  egotism,  Galahad's  purity,  Lance- 

16 


A  BOY  IN  THE  WOOD  17 

• 

lot's  passion,  Tristram's  melancholy.  I  reasoned 
like  Socrates  and  made  Phaedo  weep;  I  persuaded 
like  Saint  Paul  and  saw  the  throng  on  Mars'  Hill 
sway  to  my  words.  I  was  by  turns  Don  Juan  and 
Don  Quixote,  Tom  Jones  and  Mr.  Allworthy,  Ham- 
let and  his  uncle,  young  Shandy  and  his.  You  will 
gather  that  I  was  a  reader.  I  was,  and  the  people 
of  my  books  stepped  out  of  their  pages  and  inhabited 
me.  Or,  to  change  the  figure,  I  found  in  every  book 
an  open  door,  and  went  in  and  dwelt  in  its  world. 
Thus  I  lived  a  thronged  and  busy  life,  a  secret  life, 
full  of  terror,  triumph,  wonder,  frantic  enterprise, 
a  noble  and  gallant  figure  among  my  peers,  while  to 
my  parents,  brothers  and  sisters  I  was  an  incalcula- 
ble, fitful  creature,  often  lethargic  and  often  in  the 
sulks.  They  saw  me  mooning  in  idleness  and  were 
revolted;  or  I  walked  dully  the  way  I  was  bid  and 
they  despaired  of  my  parts.  I  could  not  explain 
myself  to  them,  still  less  justify,  having  that  mis- 
erable veil  of  reserve  close  over  my  mouth,  like  a 
yashmak.  To  my  father  I  could  not  speak,  to  my 
mother  I  did  not;  the  others,  being  my  juniors  all, 
hardly  existed.  Who  is  to  declare  the  motives  of 
a  child's  mind?  What  was  the  nature  of  this  reti- 
cence? Was  it  that  my  real  habit  was  reverie?  Was 
it,  as  I  suspect,  that  constitutional  timidity  made  me 
diffident?  I  was  a  coward,  I  am  very  sure,  for  I 


i8  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

was  always  highly  imaginative.  Was  it,  finally,  that 
I  was  dimly  conscious  of  matters  which  I  despaired 
of  putting  clearly?  Who  can  say?  And  who  can 
tell  me  now  whether  I  was  cursed  or  blessed?  Cer- 
tainly, if  it  had  been  possible  to  any  person  my  senior 
to  share  with  me  my  daily  adventures,  I  might  have 
conquered  the  cowardice  from  which  I  suffered  such 
terrible  reverses.  But  it  was  not.  I  was  the  eldest 
of  a  large  family,  and  apparently  the  easiest  to  deal 
with  of  any  of  it.  I  was  what  they  call  a  tractable 
child,  being,  in  fact,  too  little  interested  in  the  world 
as  it  was  to  resent  any  duties  cast  upon  me.  It  was 
not  so  with  the  others.  They  were  high-spirited 
little  creatures,  as  often  in  mischief  as  not,  and  de- 
manded much  more  pains  then  I  ever  did.  What 
they  demanded  they  got,  what  I  did  not  demand  I 
got  not:  "Lo,  here  is  alle!  What  shold  I  more 


How  it  was  that,  taking  no  interest  in  my  actual 
surroundings,  I  became  aware  of  unusual  things  be- 
hind them  I  cannot  understand.  It  is  very  difficult 
to  differentiate  between  what  I  imagined  and  what 
I  actually  perceived.  It  was  a  favourite  string  of 
my  poor  father's  plaintive  lyre  that  I  had  no  eyes. 
He  was  a  great  walker,  a  poet,  and  a  student  of 
nature.  Every  Sunday  of  his  life  he  took  me  and 
my  brother  for  a  long  tramp  over  the  country,  the 


A  BOY  IN  THE  WOOD  19 

intense  spiritual  fatigue  of  which  exercise  I  should 
never  be  able  to  describe.  I  have  a  sinking  of  the 
heart,  even  now,  when  I  recall  our  setting  out.  In- 
tolerable labour!  I  saw  nothing  and  said  nothing. 
I  did  nothing  but  plug  one  dull  foot  after  the  other. 
I  felt  like  some  chained  slave  going  to  the  hulks, 
and  can  well  imagine  that  my  companions  must  have 
been  very  much  aware  of  it.  My  brother,  whose 
nature  was  much  happier  than  mine,  who  dreamed 
much  less  and  observed  much  more,  was  the  life  of 
these  woful  excursions.  Without  him  I  don't  think 
that  my  father  could  have  endured  them.  At  any 
rate,  he  never  did.  I  amazed,  irritated,  and  con- 
founded him  at  most  times,  but  in  nothing  more 
than  my  apathy  to  what  enchanted  him.1  The  birds, 
the  flowers,  the  trees,  the  waters  did  not  exist  for 
me  in  my  youth.  The  world  for  me  was  uninhabited, 
a  great  empty  cage.  People  passed  us,  or  stood  at 
their  doorways  watching  us,  but  I  never  saw  them. 
If  by  chance  I  descried  somebody  coming  whom  it 
would  be  necessary  to  salute,  or  to  whom  I  might 
have  to  speak,  I  turned  aside  to  avoid  them.  I  was 
not  only  shy  to  a  fault,  as  a  diffident  child  must  be, 
but  the  world  of  sense  either  did  not  exist  for  me  or 

1  And  me  also  when  I  was  enabled  at  a  later  day  to  perceive  them. 
I  am  thankful  to  remember  and  record  for  my  own  comfort  that  that 
day  came  not  too  late  for  my  enchantment  to  overtake  his  and  proceed 
in  company. 


20  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

was  thrust  upon  me  to  my  discomfort.  And  yet 
all  the  while,  as  I  moved  or  sat,  I  was  surrounded 
by  a  stream  of  being,  of  infinite  constituents,  aware 
of  them  to  this  extent  that  I  could  converse  with 
them  without  sight  or  speech.  I  knew  they  were 
there,  I  knew  them  singing,  whispering,  screaming. 
They  filled  my  understanding  not  my  senses.  I  did 
not  see  them  but  I  felt  them.  I  knew  not  what  they 
said  or  sang,  but  had  always  the  general  sense  of 
their  thronging  neighbourhood. 

I  enlarge  upon  this  because  I  think  it  justifies  me 
in  adding  that,  observing  so  little,  what  I  did  ob- 
serve with  my  bodily  eyes  must  almost  certainly 
have  been  observable.  But  now  let  the  reader 
judge. 

The  first  time  I  ever  saw  a  creature  which  was 
really  outside  ordinary  experience  was  in  the  late 
autumn  of  my  twelfth  year.  My  brother,  next  in 
age  to  me,  was  nine,  my  eldest  sister  eight.  We 
three  had  been  out  walking  with  our  mother,  and 
were  now  returning  at  dusk  to  our  tea  through  a 
wood  which  covered  the  top  of  a  chalk  down.  I 
remember  vividly  the  scene.  The  carpet  of  drenched 
leaves  under  bare  branches,  the  thin  spear-like  shafts 
of  the  underwood,  the  grey  lights  between,  the 
pale  frosty  sky  overhead  with  the  sickle  moon  low 
down  in  it.  I  remember,  too,  various  sensations, 


A  BOY  IN  THE  WOOD  21 

such  as  the  sudden  chill  which  affected  me  as  the 
crimson  globe  of  the  sun  disappeared;  and  again 
how,  when  we  emerged  from  the  wood,  I  was  en- 
heartened  by  the  sight  of  the  village  shrouded  under 
chimney  smoke  and  by  the  one  or  two  twinkling 
lights  dotted  here  and  there  about  the  dim  wolds. 

In  the  wood  it  was  already  twilight  and  very 
damp.  Perhaps  I  had  been  tired,  more  likely  bored 
— as  I  always  was  when  I  was  not  being  somebody 
else.  I  remember  that  I  had  found  the  path  inter- 
minable. I  had  been  silent,  as  I  mostly  was,  while 
the  other  two  had  chattered  and  played  about  our 
mother;  and  when  presently  I  stayed  behind  for  a 
purpose  I  remember  that  I  made  no  effort  to  catch 
them  up.  I  knew  the  way  perfectly,  of  course,  and 
had  no  fear  of  the  dark.  Oddly  enough  I  had  no 
fear  of  that.  I  was  far  less  imaginative  in  the  night 
than  in  the  day.  Besides  that,  by  the  time  I  was 
ready  to  go  after  them  I  had  much  else  to  think  of. 

I  must  have  been  looking  at  him  for  some  time 
before  I  made  out  that  he  was  there.  So  you  may 
peer  into  a  thicket  a  hundred  times  and  see  nothing, 
and  then  a  trick  of  the  light  or  a  flutter  of  the  mood 
and  you  see  creatures  where  you  had  been  sure  was 
nothing.  As  children  will,  I  had  stayed  longer 
than  I  need,  looking  and  wondering  into  the  wood, 
not  observing  but  yet  absorbing  the  effects  of  the 


22  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

lights  and  shades.  The  trees  were  sapling  chest- 
nuts if  I  am  not  mistaken,  Spanish  chestnuts,  and 
used  for  hop-poles  in  those  parts.  Their  leaves  de- 
cay gradually,  the  fleshy  part,  so  to  speak,  dropping 
away  from  the  articulation  till  at  last  bleached 
skeleton  leaves  remain  and  flicker  at  every  sigh  of 
the  wind.  The  ground  was  densely  carpeted  with 
other  leaves  in  the  same  state,  or  about  to  become 
so.  The  silver  grey  was  cross-hatched  by  the  purple 
lines  of  the  serried  stems,  and  as  the  view  receded 
this  dipped  into  blue  and  there  lost  itself.  It  was 
very  quiet — a  windless  fall  of  the  light.  To-day  I 
should  find  it  most  beautiful;  and  even  then,  I  sus- 
pect, I  felt  its  beauty  without  knowing  it  to  be  so. 
Looking  into  it  all  without  realising  it,  I  presently 
and  gradually  did  realise  something  else:  a  shape,  a 
creature,  a  thing  of  form  and  pressure — not  a  wraith, 
not,  I  am  quite  certain,  a  trick  of  the  senses. 

It  was  under  a  clump  of  the  chestnut  stems,  kneel- 
ing and  sitting  on  its  heels,  and  it  was  watching  me 
with  the  bright,  quick  eyes  of  a  mouse.  If  I  were  to 
say  that  my  first  thought  was  of  some  peering  and 
waiting  animal,  I  should  go  on  to  qualify  the  thought 
by  reference  to  the  creature's  eyes.  They  were  eyes 
which,  like  all  animals',  could  only  express  one  thing 
at  a  time.  They  expressed  now  attention,  the  closest: 
not  fear,  not  surprise,  not  apprehension  of  anything 


A  BOY  IN  THE  WOOD  23 

that  I  might  be  meditating  against  their  peace,  but 
simply  minute  attention.  The  absence  of  fear,  no 
doubt,  marked  their  owner  off  from  the  animals  of 
common  acquaintance;  but  the  fact  that  they  did 
not  at  the  same  time  express  the 'being  itself  showed 
him  to  be  different  from  our  human  breed.  For 
whatever  else  the  human  pair  of  eyes  may  reveal,  it 
reveals  the  looker. 

The  eyes  of  this  creature  revealed  nothing  of  it- 
self except  that  it  was  watching  me  narrowly.  I 
could  not  even  be  sure  of  its  sex,  though  I  believe 
it  to  have  been  a  male,  and  shall  hereafter  treat  of 
it  as  such.  I  could  see  that  he  was  young;  I  thought 
about  my  own  age.  He  was  very  pale,  without 
being  at  all  sickly — indeed,  health  and  vigour  and 
extreme  vivacity  were  implicit  in  every  line  and  ex- 
pressed in  every  act;  he  was  clear-skinned,  but  al- 
most colourless.  The  shadow  under  his  chin,  I 
remember,  was  bluish.  His  eyes  were  round,  when 
not  narrowed  by  that  closeness  of  his  scrutiny  of 
me,  and  though  probably  brown,  showed  to  be  all 
black,  with  pupil  indistinguishable  from  iris.  The 
effect  upon  me  was  of  black,  vivid  black,  unintelli- 
gent eyes — which  see  intensely  but  cannot  translate. 
His  hair  was  dense  and  rather  long.  It  covered  his 
ears  and  touched  his  shoulders.  It  was  pushed  from 
his  forehead  sideways  in  a  thick,  in  a  solid  fold,  as 


24  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

if  it  had  been  the  corner  of  a  frieze  cape  thrown  back. 
It  was  dark  hair,  but  not  black;  his  neck  was  very 
thin.  I  don't  know  how  he  was  dressed — I  never 
noticed  such  things;  but  hi  colour  he  must  have 
been  inconspicuous,  since  I  had  been  looking  at  him 
for  a  good  time  without  seeing  him  at  all.  A  sleeve- 
less tunic,  I  think,  which  may  have  been  brown,  or 
grey,  or  silver-white.  I  don't  know.  But  his  knees 
were  bare — that  I  remember;  and  his  arms  were 
bare  from  the  shoulder. 

I  standing,  he  squatting  on  his  heels,  the  pair  of 
us  looked  full  at  one  another.  I  was  not  frightened, 
no  more  was  he.  I  was  excited,  and  full  of  interest; 
so,  I  think,  was  he.  My  heart  beat  double  time. 
Then  I  saw,  with  a  curious  excitement,  that  between 
his  knees  he  held  a  rabbit,  and  that  with  his  left 
hand  he  had  it  by  the  throat.  Now,  what  is  ex- 
traordinary to  me  about  this  discovery  is  that  there 
was  nothing  shocking  in  it. 

I  saw  the  rabbit's  wild  and  panic-blown  eye,  I 
saw  the  bright  white  rim  of  it,  and  recognised  its 
little  added  terror  of  me  even  hi  the  midst  of  its 
anguish.  That  must  have  been  the  conventional 
fright  of  a  beast  of  chase,  an  instinct  to  fear  rather 
than  an  emotion;  for  of  emotions  the  poor  thing 
must  have  been  having  its  fill.  It  was  not  till  I  saw 
its  mouth  horribly  open,  its  lips  curled  back  to  show 


A  BOY  IN  THE  WOOD  25 

its  shelving  teeth  that  I  could  have  guessed  at  what 
it  was  suffering.  But  gradually  I  apprehended  what 
was  being  done.  Its  captor  was  squeezing  its  throat. 
I  saw  what  I  had  never  seen  before,  and  have  never 
seen  since,  I  saw  its  tongue  like  a  pale  pink  petal  of 
a  flower  dart  out  as  the  pressure  drove  it.  Revolt- 
ing sight  as  that  would  have  been  to  me,  witnessed  in 
the  world,  here,  in  this  dark  wood,  in  this  outland 
presence,  it  was  nothing  but  curious.  Now,  as  I 
watched  and  wondered,  the  being,  following  my 
eyes'  direction,  looked  down  at  the  huddled  thing 
between  his  thighs,  and  just  as  children  squeeze  a 
snap-dragon  flower  to  make  it  open  and  shut  its 
mouth,  so  precisely  did  he,  pressing  or  releasing 
the  windpipe,  cause  that  poor  beast  to  throw  back 
its  lips  and  dart  its  dry  tongue.  He  did  this  many 
times  while  he  watched  it;  and  when  he  looked  up 
at  me  again,  and  while  he  continued  to  look  at  me, 
I  saw  that  his  cruel  fingers,  as  by  habit,  continued 
the  torture,  and  that  in  some  way  he  derived  pleas- 
ure from  the  performance — as  if  it  gratified  him  to 
be  sure  that  effect  was  following  on  cause  inevitably. 
I  have  never,  I  believe,  been  cruel  to  an  animal  in 
my  life.  I  hated  cruelty  then  as  I  hate  it  now.  I 
have  always  shirked  the  sight  of  anything  in  pain 
from  my  childhood  onwards.  Yet  the  fact  is  that 
not  only  did  I  nothing  to  interfere  in  what  I  saw 


26  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

going  on,  but  that  I  was  deeply  interested  and  ab- 
sorbed in  it.  I  can  only  explain  that  to  myself  now, 
by  supposing  that  I  knew  then,  that  the  creature  in 
front  of  me  was  not  of  my  own  kind,  and  was  not, 
in  fact,  outraging  any  law  of  its  own  being.  Is  not 
that  possible?  May  I  not  have  collected  unawares 
so  much  out  of  created  nature?  I  am  unable  to  say: 
all  I  am  clear  about  is  that  here  was  a  thing  in  the 
semblance  of  a  boy  doing  what  I  had  never  observed 
a  boy  do,  and  what  if  I  ever  had  observed  a  boy  do, 
would  have  flung  me  into  a  transport  of  rage  and 
grief.  Here,  therefore,  was  a  thing  in  the  semblance 
of  a  boy  who  was  no  boy  at  all.  So  much  must  have 
been  as  certain  to  me  then  as  it  is  indisputable  now. 
One  doesn't,  at  that  age,  reason  things  out;  one 
knows  them,  and  is  dumb,  though  unconvinced,  be- 
fore powerful  syllogisms  to  the  contrary.  All  chil- 
dren are  so,  confronted  by  strange  phenomena.  And 
yet  I  had  facts  to  go  upon  if,  child  as  I  was,  I  had 
been  capable  of  inference.  I  need  only  mention 
one.  If  this  creature  had  been  human,  upon  seeing 
that  I  was  conscious  of  its  behaviour  to  the  rabbit, 
it  would  either  have  stopped  the  moment  it  perceived 
that  I  did  not  approve  or  was  not  amused,  or  it 
would  have  continued  deliberately  out  of  bravado. 
But  it  neither  stopped  nor  hardily  continued.  It 
watched  its  experiment  with  interest  for  a  little, 


A  BOY  IN  THE  WOOD  27 

then,  finding  me  more  interesting,  did  not  discon- 
tinue it,  but  ceased  to  watch  it.  He  went  on  with 
it  mechanically,  dreamingly,  as  if  to  the  excitation 
of  some  other  sense  than  sight,  that  of  feeling,  for 
instance.  He  went  on  lasciviously,  for  the  sake  of 
the  pleasure  so  to  be  had.  In  other  words,  being 
without  self-consciousness  and  ignorant  of  shame, 
he  must  have  been  non-human. 

After  all,  too,  it  must  be  owned  that  I  cannot 
have  been  confronted  by  the  appearance  for  more 
than  a  few  minutes.  Allow  me  three  to  have  been 
spent  before  I  was  aware  of  him,  three  more  will  be 
the  outside  I  can  have  passed  gazing  at  him.  But 
I  speak  of  "minutes,"  of  course,  referring  to  my  os- 
tensible self,  that  inert,  apathetic  child  who  followed 
its  mother,  that  purblind  creature  through  whose 
muddy  lenses  the  pent  immortal  had  been  forced  to 
see  his  familiar  in  the  wood,  and  perchance  to  dress 
in  form  and  body  what,  for  him,  needed  neither  to 
be  visible.  It  was  this  outward  self  which  was  now 
driven  by  circumstances  to  resume  command — the 
command  which  for  "three  minutes"  by  his  reckon- 
ing he  had  relinquished.  Both  of  us,  no  doubt,  had 
been  much  longer  there  had  we  not  been  interrupted. 
A  woodman,  homing  from  his  work,  came  heavily 
up  the  path,  and  like  a  guilty  detected  rogue  I  turned 
to  run  and  took  my  incorruptible  with  me.  Not 


28  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

until  I  had  passed  the  man  did  I  think  to  look  back. 
The  partner  of  my  secret  was  not  then  to  be  seen. 
Out  of  sight  out  of  mind  is  the  way  of  children. 
Out  of  mind,  then,  withdrew  my  incorruptible.  I 
hurried  on,  ran,  and  overtook  my  party  half-way 
down  the  bare  hillside.  I  still  remember  the  feeling 
of  relief  with  which  I  swept  into  the  light,  felt  the 
cold  air  on  my  cheeks,  and  saw  the  intimacy  of  the 
village  open  out  below  me.  I  am  almost  sure  that 
my  eyes  held  tears  at  the  assurance  of  the  sweet, 
familiar  things  which  I  knew  and  could  love.  There, 
literally,  were  my  own  people:  that  which  I  had  left 
behind  must  be  unlawful  because  it  was  so  strange. 
In  the  warmth  and  plenty  of  the  lighted  house,  by 
the  schoolroom  table,  before  the  cosily  covered  tea- 
pot, amid  the  high  talk,  the  hot  toast  and  the  jam, 
my  experience  in  the  dusky  wood  seemed  unreal, 
lawless,  almost  too  terrible  to  be  remembered — 
never,  never  to  be  named.  It  haunted  me  for  many 
days,  and  gave  rise  to  curious  wonderings  now  and 
then.  As  I  passed  the  patient,  humble  beasts  of 
common  experience — a  carter's  team  nodding,  jing- 
ling its  brasses,  a  donkey,  patient,  humble,  hobbled 
in  a  paddock,  dogs  sniffing  each  other,  a  cat  tucked 
into  a  cottage  window,  I  mused  doubtfully  and  often 
whether  we  had  touched  the  threshold  of  the  heart 
of  their  mystery.  But  for  the  most  part,  being  con- 


A  BOY  IN  THE  WOOD  29 

stitutionally  timid,  I  was  resolute  to  put  the  experi- 
ence out  of  mind.  When  next  I  chanced  to  go 
through  the  wood  there  is  no  doubt  I  peered  askance 
to  right  and  left  among  the  trees;  but  I  took  good 
care  not  to  desert  my  companions.  That  which  I 
had  seen  was  unaccountable,  therefore  out  of  bounds. 
But  though  I  never  saw  him  there  again  I  have 
never  forgotten  him. 


HARKNESS'S   FANCY 

I  MAY  have  been  a  precocious  child,  but  I  cannot 
tell  within  a  year  or  two  how  soon  it  was  that  I  at- 
tained manhood.  There  must  have  been  a  moment 
of  time  when  I  clothed  myself  in  skins,  like  Adam; 
when  I  knew  what  this  world  calls  good  and  evil — 
by  which  this  world  means  nothing  more  nor  less 
than  men  and  women,  and  chiefly  women,  I  think. 
Savage  peoples  initiate  their  young  and  teach  them 
the  taboos  of  society  by  stripes.  We  allow  our  issue 
to  gash  themselves.  By  stripes,  then,  upon  my 
young  flesh,  I  scored  up  this  lesson  for  myself. 
Certain  things  were  never  to  be  spoken  of,  certain 
things  never  to  be  looked  at  in  certain  ways,  certain 
things  never  to  be  done  consciously,  or  for  the 
pleasure  to  be  got  out  of  them.  One  stepped  out  of 
childish  conventions  into  mannish  conventions,  and 
did  so,  certainly,  without  any  instruction  from  out- 
side. I  remember,  for  instance,  that,  as  children, 
it  was  a  rigid  part  of  our  belief  that  our  father  was 
the  handsomest  man  in  the  world — handsome  was 
the  word.  In  the  same  way  our  mother  was  by 
prerogative  the  most  beautiful  woman.  If  some 

30 


HARKNESS'S  FANCY  31 

hero  flashed  upon  our  scene — Garibaldi,  Lancelot  of 
the  Lake,  or  another — the  greatest  praise  we  could 
possibly  have  given  him  for  beauty,  excellence,  cour- 
age, or  manly  worth  would  have  put  him  second  to 
our  father.  So  also  Helen  of  Sparta  and  Beatrice  of 
Florence  gave  way.  That  was  the  law  of  the  nurs- 
ery, rigid  and  never  to  be  questioned  until  uncon- 
sciously I  grew  out  of  it,  and  becoming  a  man,  put 
upon  me  the  panoply  of  manly  eyes.  I  now  accepted 
it  that  to  kiss  my  sister  was  nothing,  but  that  to 
kiss  her  friend  would  be  very  wicked.  I  discovered 
that  there  were  two  ways  of  looking  at  a  young 
woman,  and  two  ways  of  thinking  about  her.  I  dis- 
covered that  it  was  lawful  to  have  some  kinds  of 
appetite,  and  to  take  pleasure  in  food,  exercise, 
sleep,  warmth,  cold  water,  hot  water,  the  smell  of 
flowers,  and  quite  unlawful  so  much  as  to  think  of, 
or  to  admit  to  myself  the  existence  of  other  kinds 
of  appetite.  /I  discovered,  in  fact,  that  love  was  a 
shameful  thing,  that  if  one  was  in  love  one  concealed 
it  from  the  world,  and,  above  all  the  world,  from 
the  object  of  one's  love.  The  conviction  was  prob- 
ably instinctive,  for  one  is  not  the  descendant  of 
puritans  for  nothing;  but  the  discovery  of  it  is 
another  matter.  Attendance  at  school  and  the  con- 
tinuous reading  of  romance  were  partly  responsible 
for  that;  physical  development  clinched  the  affair, 


32  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

I  was  in  all  respects  mature  at  thirteen,  though  my 
courage  (to  use  the  word  in  Chaucer's  sense)  was  not 
equal  to  my  ability.  I  had  more  than  usual  diffi- 
dence against  me,  more  than  usual  reserve;  and  self- 
consciousness,  from  which  I  have  only  lately  escaped, 
grew  upon  me  hand  in  hand  with  experience. 

But  being  now  become  a  day-scholar  at  the 
Grammar  School,  and  thrown  whether  I  would  or 
not  among  other  boys  of  my  own  age,  I  sank  my 
recondite  self  deeply  under  the  folds  of  my  quick- 
ened senses.  I  became  aware  of  a  world  which  was 
not  his  world  at  all.  I  watched,  I  heard,  I  judged,  I 
studied  intently  my  comrades;  and  while  in  secret  I 
shared  their  own  hardy  lives,  I  was  more  than  con- 
tent to  appear  a  cipher  among  them.  I  had  no 
friends  and  made  none.  All  my  comradeship  with 
my  school-mates  took  place  in  my  head,  for  however 
salient  in  mood  or  inclination  I  may  have  been  I  was 
a  laggard  in  action.  In  company  I  was  lower  than 
the  least  of  them;  in  my  solitude,  at  their  head  I 
captured  the  universe.  Daily,  to  and  fro,  for  two 
or  three  years  I  journeyed  between  my  home  and 
this  school,  with  a  couple  of  two-mile  walks  and  a 
couple  of  train  journeys  to  be  got  through  in  all 
weathers  and  all  conditions  of  light.  I  saw  little  or 
nothing  of  my  school-fellows  out  of  hours,  and  lived 
all  my  play-time,  if  you  can  so  call  it,  intensely  alone 


HARKNESS'S  FANCY  33 

with  the  people  of  my  imagination — to  whose  num- 
ber I  could  now  add  gleanings  from  the  Grammar 
School. 

I  don't  claim  objective  reality  for  any  of  these;  I 
am  sure  that  they  were  of  my  own  making.  Though 
unseen  beings  throng  round  us  all,  though  as  a  child 
I  had  been  conscious  of  them,  though  I  had  actu- 
ally seen  one,  in  these  first  school  years  of  mine  the 
machinery  I  had  for  seeing  the  usually  unseen  was 
eclipsed;  my  recondite  self  was  fast  in  his  cachot — 
and  I  didn't  know  that  he  was  there!  (  But  one  may 
imagine  fairies  enough  out  of  one's  reading,  and  go- 
ing beyond  that,  using  it  as  a  spring-board,  advance 
in  the  work  of  creation  from  realising  to  begetting. 
So  it  was  with  me.  /The  Faerie  Queen  was  as  fa- 
miliar as  the  Latin  Primer  ought  to  have  been.  I 
had  much  of  Mallory  by  heart — a  book  full  of  magic. 
Forth  of  his  pages  stepped  men-at-arms  and  damsels 
the  moment  I  was  alone,  and  held  me  company  for 
as  long  as  I  would.  The  persons  of  Homer's  music 
came  next  to  them.  I  was  Hector  and  held  Andro- 
mache to  my  heart.  I  kissed  her  farewell  when  I 
went  forth  to  school,  and  hurried  home  at  night  from 
the  station,  impatient  for  her  arms.  I  was  never 
Paris,  and  had  only  awe  of  Helen.  Even  then  I 
dimly  guessed  her  divinity,  that  godhead  which  the 
supremest  beauty  really  is.  But  I  was  often  Odys- 


34  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

seus  the  much-enduring,  and  very  well  acquainted 
with  the  wiles  of  Calypso.  Next  in  power  of  en- 
chantment came  certainly  Don  Quixote,  in  whose 
lank  bones  I  was  often  encased.  Dulcinea's  charm 
was  very  real  to  me.  I  revelled  in  her  honeyed  name. 
I  was  Don  Juan  too,  and  I  was  Tom  Jones;  but  my 
most  natural  impersonation  in  those  years  was  Tris- 
tram. The  luxury  of  that  champion's  sorrows  had 
a  swooning  sweetness  of  their  own  of  which  I  never 
tired.  Iseult  meant  nothing.  I  cared  nothing  for 
her.  I  was  enamoured  of  the  hero,  and  saw  myself 
drenched  in  his  passion.  Like  Narcissus  in  the  fable, 
I  loved  myself,  and  saw  myself,  in  Tristram's  form, 
the  most  beautiful  and  the  most  beloved  of  beings. 

Chivalry  and  Romance  chained  me  at  that  time 
and  not  the  supernatural.  The  fairy  adventures  of 
the  heroes  of  my  love  swept  by  me  untouched.  Mor- 
gan le  Fay,  Britomart,  Vivien,  Nimue,  Merlin  did 
not  convince  me;  they  were  picturesque  conventions 
whose  decorative  quality  I  felt,  while  so  far  as  I  was 
concerned  they  were  garniture  or  apparatus.,  And 
yet  the  fruitful  meadows  through  which  I  took  my 
daily  way  were  as  forests  to  me;  the  grass-stems 
spired  up  to  my  fired  fancy  like  great  trees.  'Among 
them  I  used  to  minish  myself  to  the  size  of  an  ant 
and  become  a  pioneer  hewing  out  a  pathway  through 
virgin  thickets.  /I  had  my  ears  alert  for  the  sound 


HARKNESS'S  FANCY  35 

of  a  horn,  of  a  galloping  horse,  of  the  Questing  Beast 
and  hounds  in  full  cry.  But  I  never  looked  to  en- 
counter a  fairy  in  these  most  fairy  solitudes.  Be- 
leaguered ladies,  knights-errant,  dwarfs,  churls,  fiends 
of  hell,  leaping  like  flames  out  of  pits  in  the  ground: 
all  these,  but  no  fairies.  It's  very  odd  that  having 
seen  the  reality  and  devoured  the  fictitious,  I  should 
have  had  zest  for  neither,  but  so  it  is.) 

As  for  my  school-mates,  though  I  had  very  little 
to  say  to  them,  or  they  to  me,  I  used  to  watch  them 
very  closely,  and,  as  I  have  said,  came  to  weave  them 
into  my  dreams.  Some  figured  as  heroes,  some  as 
magnanimous  allies,  some  as  malignant  enemies, 
some  who  struck  me  as  beautiful  received  of  me  the 
kind  of  idolatry,  the  insensate  self-surrender  which 
creatures  of  my  sort  have  always  offered  up  to  beauty 

of  any  sort.    I  remember  T e,  a  very  shapely 

and  distinguished  youth.  I  worshipped  him  as  a 
god,  and  have  seen  him  since — alas!  I  remember 

B also,  a  tall,  lean,  loose-limbed  young  man. 

He  was  a  great  cricketer,  a  good-natured,  sleepy 
giant,  perfectly  stupid  (I  am  sure)  but  with  marks  of 
breed  about  him  which  I  could  not  possibly  mistake. 
Him,  too,  I  enthroned  upon  my  temple-frieze;  he 
would  have  figured  there  as  Meleager  had  I  been  a 
few  years  older.  As  it  was,  he  rode  a  blazoned 
charger,  all  black,  and  feutred  his  lance  with  the 


36  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

Knights  of  King  Arthur's  court.     Then  there  was 

H n,  a  good-looking,  good-natured  boy,  and 

T r,  another.    Many  and  many  a  day  did  they 

ride  forth  with  me  adventuring — that  is,  spiritually 
they  did  so;  physically  speaking,  I  had  no  scot  or 
lot  with  them.  We  were  in  plate  armour,  visored 
and  beplumed.  We  slung  our  storied  shields  behind 
us;  we  had  our  spears  at  rest;  we  laughed,  told  tales, 
sang  as  we  went  through  the  glades  of  the  forest, 
down  the  rutted  charcoal-burner's  track,  and  came 
to  the  black  mere,  where  there  lay  a  barge  with  oars 

among  the  reeds.    I  can  see,  now,  H n  throw 

up  his  head,  bared  to  the  sky  and  slanting  sun.  He 
had  thick  and  dark  curly  hair  and  a  very  white  neck. 

His  name  of  chivalry  was  Sagramor.    T r  was 

of  stouter  build  and  less  salient  humour.    He  was 
Bors,  a  brother  of  Lancelot's.    I,  who  was  moody, 
here  as  in  waking  life,  was  Tristram,  more  often 
Tramtris. 
Of  other  more  sinister  figures  I  remember  two. 

R s,  who  bullied  me  until  I  was  provoked  at 

last  into  facing  him;  a  greedy,  pale,  lecherous  boy, 
graceless,  a  liar,  but  extremely  clever.  I  had  a  hor- 
ror of  him  which  endures  now.  If  he,  as  I  have,  had 
a  dweller  in  the  deeps  of  him,  his  must  have  been  a 
satyr.  I  cannot  doubt  it  now.  Disastrous  ally  for 
mortal  man!  Vice  sat  upon  his  face  like  a  grease; 


HARKNESS'S  FANCY  37 

vice  made  his  fingers  quick.  He  had  a  lickorous 
tongue  and  a  taste  for  sweet  things  which  even  then 
made  me  sick.  So  repulsive  was  he  to  me,  so  im- 
pressed upon  my  fancy,  that  it  was  curious  he  did 
not  haunt  my  inner  life.  But  I  never  met  him  there. 
No  shape  of  his  ever  encountered  me  hi  the  wilds 
and  solitary  places.  In  the  manifest  world  he 
afflicted  me  to  an  extent  which  the  rogue-fairy  in 
the  wood  could  never  have  approached.  Perhaps 
it  was  that  all  my  being  was  forearmed  against  him, 
and  that  I  fought  him  off.  At  any  rate  he  never 
trespassed  in  my  preserves. 

The  other  was  R d,  a  bleared  and  diseased 

creature,  a  thing  of  pity  and  terror  to  the  whole- 
some, one  of  those  outcasts  of  the  world  which  every 
school  has  to  know  and  reckon  with.  A  furtive, 
nail-bitten,  pick-nose  wretch  with  an  unholy  hunger 
for  ink,  earth-worms  and  the  like.  What  terrible 
tenant  do  the  likes  of  these  carry  about  with  them! 
He,  too,  haunted  me,  but  not  fearfully;  but  he,  too, 
I  now  understand  too  well,  was  haunted  and  ridden 
to  doom.  I  pitied  him,  tried  to  be  kind  to  him,  tried 
to  treat  him  as  the  human  thing  which  in  some  sort 
he  was.  I  discovered  that  when  he  was  interested 
he  forgot  his  loathsome  cravings,  and  became  almost 
lovable.  I  went  home  with  him  once,  to  a  mean 
house  in  .  He  took  me  into  the  backyard 


38  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

and  showed  me  his  treasury — half  a  dozen  rabbits, 
as  many  guinea-pigs,  and  a  raven  with  a  bald  head. 
He  was  all  kindness  to  these  prisoners,  fondled  them 
with  hands  and  voice,  spoke  a  kind  of  inarticulate 
baby  language  to  them,  and  gave  them  pet  names. 
He  forgot  his  misery,  his  poverty — I  remember  that 
he  never  had  a  handkerchief  and  always  wanted  one, 
that  his  jacket-sleeves  were  near  his  elbow,  and  that 
his  wrist  bones  were  red  and  broken.  But  now  there 
shone  a  clear  light  in  his  eye;  he  could  face  the  world 
as  he  spoke  to  me  of  the  habits  of  his  friends.  We 
got  upon  some  sort  of  terms  by  these  means,  and  I 

always  had  a  kind  of  affection  for  poor  R d. 

In  a  sense  we  were  both  outcasts,  and  might  have 
warmed  the  world  for  each  other.  If  I  had  not  been 
so  entirely  absorbed  in  my  private  life  as  to  grudge 
any  moment  of  it  unnecessarily  spent  I  should  have 
asked  him  home.  But  boys  are  exorbitant  in  their 
own  affairs,  and  I  had  no  time  to  spare  him. 

I  was  a  year  at before  I  got  so  far  with 

any  schoolfellow  of  mine  there;  but  just  about  the 

time  of  my  visit  to  R d  I  fell  in  with  another 

boy,  called  Harkness,  who,  for  some  reason  of  his 
own,  desired  my  closer  acquaintance  and  got  as  much 
of  it  as  I  was  able  to  give  to  anybody,  and  a  good 
deal  more  than  he  deserved  or  I  was  the  better  of. 
He,  too,  was  a  day-boy,  whose  people  lived  in  a 


HARKNESS'S  FANCY  39 

suburb  of  the  town  which  lay  upon  my  road.  We 
scraped  acquaintance  by  occasionally  travelling  to- 
gether so  much  of  the  way  as  he  had  to  traverse; 
from  this  point  onward  all  the  advances  were  his. 
I  had  no  liking  for  him,  and,  in  fact,  some  of  his  cus- 
toms shocked  me.  But  he  was  older  than  I,  very 
friendly,  and  very  interesting.  He  evidently  liked 
me;  he  asked  me  to  tea  with  him;  he  used  to  wait 
for  me,  going  and  returning.  I  had  no  means  of 
refusing  his  acquaintance,  and  did  not;  but  I  got  no 
good  out  of  him. 

As  he  was  older,  so  he  was  much  more  competent. 
Not  so  much  vicious  as  curious  and  enterprising,  he 
knew  a  great  many  things  which  I  only  guessed  at, 
and  could  do  much — or  said  that  he  could — which  I 
only  dreamed  about.  He  put  a  good  deal  of  heart 
into  my  instruction,  and  left  me  finally  with  my 
lesson  learned.  I  never  saw  nor  heard  of  him  after 
I  left  the  school.  We  did  not  correspond,  and  he 
left  no  mark  upon  me  of  any  kind.  The  lesson 
learned,  I  used  the  knowledge  certainly;  but  it  did 
not  take  me  into  the  region  which  he  knew  best. 
His  grove  of  philosophy  was  close  to  the  school,  in 

K —  Park,  which  is  a  fine  enclosure  of  forest 

trees,  glades,  brake-fern  and  deer.  Here,  in  com- 
plete solitude,  for  we  never  saw  a  soul,  my  senti- 
mental education  was  begun  by  this  self-appointed 


40  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

professor.  As  I 'remember,  he  was  a  good-looking 
lad  enough,  with  a  round  and  merry  face,  high  col- 
our, bright  eyes,  a  moist  and  laughing  mouth.  Had 
he  known  the  way  in  he  would  have  been  at  home  in 
the  Garden  of  Priapus,  where  perhaps  he  is  now.  He 
was  hardy  in  address,  a  ready  speaker,  rather  eloquent 
upon  the  theme  that  he  loved,  and  I  dare  say  he  may 
have  been  as  fortunate  as  he  said,  or  very  nearly. 
Certainly  what  he  had  to  tell  me  of  love  and  women 
opened  my  understanding.  I  believe  that  I  envied 
him  his  ease  of  attainment  more  than  what  he  said 
he  had  attained.  I  might  have  been  stimulated  by 
his  adventures  to  be  adventurous  on  my  own  account, 
but  I  never  was,  neither  at  that  time  nor  at  any 
other.  I  am  quite  certain  that  never  in  my  life 
have  I  gone  forth  conquering  and  to  conquer  in 
affairs  of  the  heart.  You  need  to  be  a  Casanova — 
which  Harkness  was  in  his  little  way — and  I  have 
had  no  aptitude  for  the  part.  But  as  I  said  just  now 
I  absorbed  his  teachings  and  made  use  of  them.  So 
far  as  he  gave  me  food  for  reflection  I  ate  it,  and  as- 
similated it  in  my  own  manner.  I  Neither  by  him 
nor  by  any  person  far  more  considerable  than  him- 
self has  my  imagination  been  moved  in  the  direction 
of  the  mover  of  it.  Let  great  poet,  great  musician, 
great  painter  stir  me  ever  so  deeply,  I  have  never 
been  able  to  follow  him  an  inch.  I  was  excited  by 


HARKNESS'S  FANCY  41 

pictures  to  see  new  pictures  of  my  own,  by  poems  to 
make  poems — of  my  own,  not  of  theirs.  In  these, 
no  doubt,  were  elements  of  theirs;  there  was  a  bor- 
rowed something,  a  quality,  an  accent,  a  spirit  of 
attack.  But  the  forms  were  mine,  and  the  setting 
always  so.  All  my  life  I  have  used  other  men's  art 
and  wisdom  as  a  spring-board.  I  suppose  every 
poet  can  say  the  same.  This  was  to  be  the  use  to 
me  of  the  lessons  of  the  precocious,  affectionate,  and 
philoprogenitive  Harkness. 

I  remember  very  well  one  golden  summer  evening 
when  he  and  I  lay  talking  under  a  great  oak — he  ex- 
pounding and  I  plucking  at  the  grass  as  I  listened, 
or  let  my  mind  go  free — how,  quite  suddenly,  the 
mesh  he  was  weaving  about  my  groping  mind  parted 
in  the  midst  and  showed  me  for  an  appreciable  mo- 
ment a  possibility  of  something — it  was  no  more — 
which  he  could  never  have  seen. 

From  the  dense  shade  in  which  we  lay  there 
stretched  out  an  avenue  of  timber  trees,  whereunder 
the  bracken,  breast  high,  had  been  cut  to  make  a  ride. 
Upon  this  bracken,  and  upon  this  smooth  channel 
in  the  midst  the  late  sun  streamed  toward  us,  a  soft 
wash  of  gold.  Behind  all  this  the  sky,  pale  to  white- 
ness immediately  overhead,  deepened  to  the  splen- 
did orange  of  the  sunset.  Each  tree  cast  his  shadow 
upon  his  neighbour,  so  that  only  the  topmost 


42  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

branches  burned  in  the  light.  Over  and  above  us 
floated  the  drowsy  hum  of  the  insect  world;  rarely 
we  heard  the  moaning  of  a  wood-dove,  more  rarely 
still  the  stirring  of  deer  hidden  in  the  thicket  shade. 
This  was  a  magical  evening,  primed  with  wonders, 
in  the  glamour  of  which  Master  Harkness  could  find 
nothing  better  for  him  to  rehearse  than  the  progress 
of  his  amours  with  his  mother's  housemaid.  Yet 
something  of  the  evening  glow,  something  of  the 
opulence  of  summer  smouldered  in  his  words.  He 
painted  his  mistress  with  the  colour  of  the  sunset, 
he  borrowed  of  it  burnt  gold  to  deck  her  clay.  He 
hymned  the  whiteness  of  her  neck,  her  slender  waist, 
her  whispers,  the  kisses  of  her  mouth.  The  scamp 
was  luxuriating  in  his  own  imaginings  or  reminis- 
cences, much  less  of  a  lover  and  far  more  of  a  rhap- 
sodist  than  he  suspected.  As  such  his  paean  of 
precocious  love  stirred  my  senses  and  fired  my  imag- 
ination, but  not  in  the  direction  of  his  own.  For  the 
glow  which  he  cast  upon  his  affair  was  a  borrowed 
one.  He  had  dipped  without  knowing  into  the  lan- 
guid glory  of  the  evening,  which  like  a  pool  of  wealth 
lay  ready  to  my  hand  also.  I  gave  him  faint  atten- 
tion from  the  first.  After  he  had  started  my  thoughts 
he  might  sing  rapture  after  rapture  of  his  young  and 
ardent  sense.  For  me  the  spirit  of  a  world  not  his 
whispered,  "A  te  convien  tenere  altro  maggio"  and 


HARKNESS'S  FANCY  43 

little  as  I  knew  it,  in  my  vague  exploration  of  that 
scene  of  beauty,  of  those  scarcely  stirring,  stilly 
burning  trees,  of  that  shimmering-fronded  fern,  of 
that  misty  splendour,  I  was  hunting  for  the  soul  of 
it  all,  for  the  informing  spirit  of  it  all.  Harkness's 
erotics  gave  ardour  to  my  search,  but  no  clew.  I 
lost  him,  left  him  behind,  and  never  found  him  again. 
He  fell  into  the  Garden  of  Priapus,  I  doubt.  As  for 
me,  I  believed  that  I  was  now  looking  upon  a  Dryad. 
I  was  looking  certainly  at  a  spirit  informed.  A 
being,  irradiate  and  quivering  with  life  and  joy  of 
life,  stood  dipt  to  the  breast  in  the  brake;  stood  so, 
bathing  in  the  light;  stood  so,  preening  herself  like 
a  pigeon  on  the  roof-edge,  and  saw  me  and  took  no 
heed. 

She  had  appeared,  or  had  been  manifest  to  me, 
quite  suddenly.  At  one  moment  I  saw  the  avenue 
of  lit  green,  at  another  she  was  dipt  in  it.  I  could 
describe  her  now,  at  this  distance  of  time — a  radiant 
young  female  thing,  fiercely  favoured,  smiling  with 
a  fierce  joy,  with  a  gleam  of  fierce  light  in  her  nar- 
rowed eyes.  Upon  her  body  and  face  was  the  hue 
of  the  sun's  red  beam;  her  hair,  loose  and  fanned 
out  behind  her  head,  was  of  the  colour  of  natural 
silk,  but  diaphanous  as  well  as  burnished,  so  that 
while  the  surfaces  glittered  like  spun  glass  the  deeps 
of  it  were  translucent  and  showed  the  fire  behind. 


44  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

Her  garment  was  thin  and  grey,  and  it  clung  to  her 
like  a  bark,  seemed  to  grow  upon  her  as  a  creeping 
stone-weed  grows.  Harkness  would  have  admired 
the  audacity  of  her  shape,  as  I  did;  but  I  found 
nothing  provocative  in  it.  As  well  might  a  boy  have 
enamoured  himself  of  a  slim  tree  as  of  that  unearthly 
shaft  of  beauty. 

I  said  that  she  preened  herself;  the  word  is  inex- 
act. She  rather  stood  bathing  in  the  light,  motion- 
less but  for  the  lifting  of  her  face  into  it  that  she 
might  dip,  or  for  the  bending  of  her  head  that  the 
warmth  behind  her  might  strike  upon  the  nape  of 
her  neck.  Those  were  all  her  movements,  slowly 
rehearsed,  and  again  and  again  rehearsed.  With 
each  of  them  she  thrilled  anew;  she  thrilled  and 
glowed  responsive  to  the  play  of  the  light.  I  don't 
know  whether  she  saw  me,  though  it  seemed  to  me 
that  our  looks  had  encountered.  If  her  eyes  had 
taken  me  in  I  should  have  known  it,  I  think;  and 
if  I  had  known  it  I  should  have  quailed  and  looked 
at  her  no  more.  So  shamefaced  was  I,  so  self-con- 
scious, that  I  can  be  positive  about  that;  for  far 
from  avoiding  her  I  watched  her  intently,  studied 
her  in  all  her  parts,  and  found  out  some  curious 
things. 

Looking  at  her  beside  the  oaks,  for  instance, 
whence  she  must  have  emanated,  I  could  judge  why 


HARKNESS'S  FANCY  45 

it  was  that  I  had  not  seen  her  come  out.  Her  col- 
ouring was  precisely  that  of  her  background.  Her 
garment,  smock  or  frock  or  vest  as  you  will,  was 
grey-green  like  the  oak  stems,  her  whites  were  those 
of  the  sky-gleams,  her  roses  those  of  the  sun's  rays. 
The  maze  of  her  hair  could  hardly  be  told  from  the 
photosphere.  I  tested  this  simply  and  summarily. 
Shutting  my  eyes  for  a  second,  when  I  opened  them 
she  was  gone.  Shutting  them  again  and  opening, 
there  she  was,  sunning  herself,  breathing  deep  and 
long,  watching  her  own  beauties  as  the  light  played 
with  them.  I  tried  this  many  times  and  it  did  not 
fail  me.  I  could,  with  her  assistance,  bring  her 
upon  my  retina  or  take  her  off  it,  as  if  I  had  worked 
a  shutter  across  my  eyes.  But  as  I  watched  her  so 
I  got  very  excited.  Her  business  was  so  mysterious, 
her  pleasure  in  it  so  absorbing;  she  was  visible  and 
yet  secret;  I  was  visible,  and  yet  she  could  be  ig- 
norant of  it.  I  got  the  same  throbbing  sort  of  in- 
terest out  of  her  as  many  and  many  a  time  I  have 
got  since  out  of  watching  other  wild  creatures  at 
their  affairs,  crouching  hidden  where  they  could  not 
discern  me  by  any  of  their  senses.  Few  things  en- 
thral me  more  than  that — and  here  I  had  my  first 
taste  of  it.  I  remember  that  my  heart  beat,  I  remem- 
ber that  I  trembled.  Nothing  could  have  torn  me 
from  the  spot  but  what  precisely  did,  an  alien  inter- 


46  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

vention.  The  besotted  Harkness  stopped  short  in 
his  recital  and  asked  me  what  I  was  staring  at. 

That  was  the  end  of  it.  I  had  rather  have  died 
than  tell  him.  Perhaps  I  was  afraid  of  his  mockery, 
perhaps  I  dared  not  risk  his  unbelief,  perhaps  I  felt 
ashamed  that  I  had  been  prying,  perhaps  I  grudged 
him  the  sight  of  her  moulded  beauty  and  keen  wild 
face.  "What  am  I  staring  at?  Why,  nothing,"  I 
said.  I  got  up  and  put  the  strap  of  my  school 
satchel  over  my  head.  I  never  looked  for  her  again 
before  I  walked  away.  Whether  she  left  when  I 
left,  whether  she  was  really  there  or  a  projection  of 
my  mind,  whether  my  inner  self,  my  prisoner,  had 
seen  her,  or  my  schoolboy  self  through  his  agency, 
whether  it  was  a  trick  of  the  senses,  a  dream,  or  the 
like  I  can't  tell  you.  I  only  know  that  I  have  now 
recalled  exactly  what  I  seemed  to  see,  and  that  I 
have  seen  her  since — her  or  her  co-mate — once  or 
twice. 

I  can  account  for  her  now  easily  enough.  I  can 
assure  myself  that  she  was  really  there,  that  she,  or 
the  like  of  her,  pervades,  haunts,  indwells  all  such 
places;  but  it  seems  that  there  must  be  a  right  rela- 
tion between  the  seer  and  the  object  before  the  un- 
seen can  become  the  seen.  Put  it  like  this,  that 
form  is  a  necessary  convention  of  our  being,  a  mode 
of  consciousness  just  as  space  is,  just  as  time,  just  as 


HARKNESS'S  FANCY  47 

rhythm  are;  then  it  is  clear  enough  that  the  spirits 
of  natural  fact  must  take  on  form  and  sensible  body 
before  we  can  apprehend  them.  They  take  on  such 
form  for  us  or  such  body  through  our  means;  that 
is  what  I  mean  by  a  right  relation  between  them  and 
ourselves.  Now  some  persons  have  the  faculty  of 
discerning  spirits,  that  is,  of  clothing  them  in  bodily 
form,  and  others  have  not;  but  of  those  who  have 
it  all  do  not  discern  them  in  the  same  form,  or 
clothe  them  in  the  same  body.  The  form  will  be 
rhythmical  to  some,  to  other  some  audible,  to  others 
yet  again  odorous,  "aromatic  pain,"  or  bliss.  These 
modes  are  no  matter,  they  are  accidents  of  our  state. 
They  cause  the  form  to  be  relative,  just  as  the  con- 
ception of  God  is;  but  the  substance  is  constant. 
I  have  seen  innumerable  spirits,  but  always  in  bodily 
form.  I  have  never  perceived  them  by  means  of 
any  other  sense,  such  as  hearing,  though  sight  has 
occasionally  been  assisted  by  hearing.  If  during  an 
orchestral  symphony  you  look  steadily  enough  at 
one  musician  or  another  you  can  always  hear  his 
instrument  above  the  rest  and  follow  his  part  in  the 
symphony.  In  the  same  way  when  I  look  at  fairy 
throngs  I  can  hear  them  sing.  If  I  single  out  one 
of  them  for  observation  I  hear  him  or  her  sing — not 
words,  never  words;  they  have  none.  I  saw  once, 
like  a  driven  cloud,  the  spirits  of  the  North-west 


48  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

wind  sweep  down  the  sky  over  the  bare  ridge  of  a 
chalk  down,  winged  and  shrouded,  eager  creatures, 
embattled  like  a  host.  They  were  grey  and  dun- 
coloured,  pale  in  the  face.  Their  hair  swept  for- 
ward, not  back;  for  it  seemed  as  if  the  wind  in  gusts 
went  faster  than  themselves,  and  was  driving  them 
faster  than  they  could  go.  Another  might  well  have 
heard  these  beings  like  a  terrible,  rushing  music,  as 
cries  of  havoc  or  desolation,  wild  peals  of  laughter, 
fury  and  exultation.  But  to  me  they  were  inaudible. 
I  heard  the  volleying  of  the  wind,  but  them  I  saw. 
So  in  the  still  ecstasy  of  that  Dryad  bathing  in  light 
I  saw,  beyond  doubt,  what  the  Greeks  called  by  that 
name,  what  some  of  them  saw;  and  I  saw  it  in  their 
mode,  although  at  the  time  of  seeing  I  knew  nothing 
of  them  or  their  modes,  because  it  happened  to  be 
also  my  mode.  But  so  far  I  did  not  more  than  see 
her,  for  though  I  haunted  the  place  where  she  had 
been  she  never  came  there  again,  nor  never  showed 
herself.  It  became  to  me  sacred  ground,  where  with 
awed  breath  I  could  say,  "Here  indeed  she  stood  and 
bathed  herself.  Here  I  really  saw  her,  and  she  me;" 
and  I  encompassed  it  with  a  fantastic  cult  of  my  own 
invention.  It  may  have  been  very  comic,  or  very 
foolish,  but  I  don't  myself  think  it  was  either,  be- 
cause it  was  so  sincere,  and  because  the  impulse  to 
do  it  came  so  naturally.  I  used  to  bare  my  head; 


HARKNESS'S   FANCY  49 

I  made  a  point  of  saving  some  of  my  luncheon 
(which  I  took  with  me  to  school)  that  I  might  leave 
it  there.  It  was  real  sacrifice  that,  because  I  had  a 
fine  appetite,  and  it  was  pure  worship.  In  my  soli- 
tary hours,  which  were  many,  I  walked  with  her  of 
course,  talked  and  played  with  her.  But  that  was 
another  thing,  imagination,  or  fancy,  and  I  don't  re- 
member anything  of  what  we  said  or  did.  It  needs 
to  be  carefully  distinguished  from  the  first  appari- 
tion with  which  imagination,  having  nothing  what- 
ever to  proceed  upon,  had  nothing  whatever  to  do. 
One  thing,  however,  I  do  remember,  that  our  rela- 
tions were  entirely  sexless;  and,  as  I  write,  another 
comes  into  mind.  I  saw  no  affinity  between  her  and 
the  creature  of  my  first  discovery.  It  never  occurred 
to  me  to  connect  the  two,  either  positively,  as  being 
inhabitants  of  a  world  of  their  own,  or  negatively,  as 
not  being  of  my  world.  I  was  not  a  reflective  boy, 
but  my  mind  proceeded  upon  flashes,  by  leaps  of  in- 
tuition. When  I  was  moved  I  could  conceive  any- 
thing, everything;  when  I  was  unmoved  I  was  as 
dull  as  a  clod.  It  was  idle  to  tell  me  to  think.  I 
could  only  think  when  I  was  moved  from  within  to 
think.  That  made  me  the  despair  of  my  father  and 
the  vessel  of  my  schoolmaster's  wrath.  So  here  I 
saw  no  relationship  whatsoever  between  the  two 
appearances.  Now,  of  course,  I  do.  I  see  now  that 


50  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

both  were  fairies,  informed  spirits  of  certain  times 
or  places.  For  time  has  a  spirit  as  well  as  space. 
But  more  of  this  in  due  season.  I  am  not  synthesis- 
ing  now  but  recording.  One  had  been  merely  curious, 
the  other  for  a  time  enthralled  me.  The  first  had 
been  made  when  I  was  too  young  to  be  interested. 
The  second  found  me  more  prepared,  and  seeded  in 
my  brain  for  many  a  day.  Gradually,  however,  it 
too  faded  as  fancy  began  to  develop  within  me.  I 
took  to  writing,  I  began  to  fall  in  love;  and  at  fifteen 
I  went  to  a  boarding-school.  Farewell,  then,  to 
rewards  and  fairies! 


THE  GODS  IN  THE  SCHOOLHOUSE 

WHO  am  I  to  treat  of  the  private  affairs  of  my 
betters,  to  evoke  your  fragrant  names,  Felicite*,  Per- 
petua,  loves  of  my  tender  youth?  Shall  I  forget 
thee,  Emilia,  thy  slow  smile  and  peering  brown  eyes 
of  mischief  or  appeal?  Rosy  Lauretta,  or  thee, 
whom  I  wooed  desperately  from  afar,  lured  by  thy 
buxom  wellbeing,  thy  meek  and  schooled  replies? 
And  if  I  forget  you  not,  how  shall  I  explore  you  as 
maladies,  trace  out  the  stages  of  your  conquest  as 
if  you  were  spores?  Never,  never.  Worship  went 
up  from  me  to  you,  and  worship  is  religion,  and  re- 
ligion is  sacred.  So,  my  dears,  were  you,  each  of 
you  in  your  turn,  sacred  hi  your  shrines.  Before 
each  of  you  in  turn  I  fell  down,  suddenly,  "Come 
corpo  morto  cadde"  And  to  each  of  you  in  turn  I 
devoted  those  waking  hours  which  fancy  had  hitherto 
claimed  of  me.  Yet  this  I  do  feel  free  to  say,  by 
leave  of  you  ladies,  that  calf-love  has  not  the  educa- 
tive value  of  the  genuine  passion.  It  is  blind  worship 
by  instinct;  it  is  a  sign  of  awakening  sense,  but  it  is 
not  its  awakener.  It  is  a  lovely  thing*  as  all  quick 

5* 


52  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

or  burning  growth  is,  but  it  has  little  relation  to  the 
soul,  and  our  Northern  state  is  the  more  gracious 
that  consummation  of  it  is  not  feasible.  Apart  from 
the  very  obvious  drawbacks  there  is  one  not  quite 
so  obvious:  I  mean  the  early  exhaustion  of  imagina- 
tive sympathy.  Love,  indeed,  is  an  affair  of  matu- 
»  rity.  I  don't  believe  that  a  man,  in  this  country, 
can  love  before  forty  or  a  woman  before  thirty-five. 

•  They  may  marry  before  that  and  have  children;  and 
they  will  love  their  children,  but  very  rarely  each 

•  other.    I  am  thinking  now  of  love  at  its  highest 
rating,  as  that  passion  which  is  able  to  lift  a  man  to 
the  highest  flight  of  which  the  soul  is  capable  here 
on  earth — a  flight,  mind  you,  which  it  may  take 
without  love,  as  the  poet's  takes  it,  or  the  musician's, 
but  which  the  ordinary  man's  can  only  take  by  means 

•  of  love.     Calf-love  is  wholly  a  sex  matter,  perfectly 
natural,  mostly  harmless,  and  nearly  always  a  beau- 
tiful thing,  to  be  treated  tenderly  by  the  wise  parent. 

In  my  own  case  my  mother  treated  it  so,  with  a 
tact  and  a  reverential  handling  which  only  good 
women  know,  and  I  had  it  as  I  had  mumps  and 
measles,  badly,  with  a  high  temperature  and  some 
delirium  but  with  no  aggravation  from  outside.  It 
ran  its  course  or  its  courses  and  left  me  sane.  One 
of  its  effects  upon  me  was  that  it  diverted  the  mind 

•  of  my  forensic  self  from  the  proceedings  or  aptitudes 


THE  GODS  IN  THE  SCHOOLHOUSE          53 

of  my  recondite.  I  neither  knew  nor  cared  what  my 
wayward  tenant  might  be  doing;  indeed,  so  much 
was  my  natural  force  concerned  in  the  heart-affair 
of  the  moment  that  the  other  wretch  within  me  lay 
as  it  were  bound  in  a  dungeon.  He  never  saw  the 
light.  The  sun  to  him  was  dark  and  silent  was  the 
moon.  There,  in  fact,  he  remained  for  some  five  or 
six  years,  while  sex  pricked  its  way  into  me  intent 
upon  the  making  of  a  man.  He,  maybe,  was  to  have 
something  to  say  to  that,  something  to  do  with  it — 
but  not  yet. 

So  much  for  calf-love;   but  now  for  a  more  im- 
portant matter.    I  left  the   Grammar  School  at 

S ,  at  the  age  when  boys  usually  go  to  their 

Harrow  and  Winchester,  as  well  equipped,  I  dare- 
say, as  most  boys  of  my  years;  for  with  the  rudiments 
I  had  been  fairly  diligent,  and  with  some  of  them 
even  had  become  expert.  I  was  well  grounded  in 
Latin  and  French  grammar,  and  in  English  literature 
was  far  ahead  of  boys  much  older  than  myself.  Look- 
ing back  now  upon  the  drilling  I  had  at  S ,  I 

consider  it  was  well  done;  but  I  have  to  set  against 
the  benefits  I  got  from  the  system  the  fact  that  I 
had  much  privacy  and  all  the  chance  which  that 
gives  a  boy  to  educate  himself  withal.  My  school 
hours  limited  my  intercourse  with  the  school  world. 
Before  and  after  them  I  could  develop  at  my  own 


54  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

pace  and  in  my  own  way — and  I  did.  I  believe  that 
when  I  went  to  my  great  school  I  had  the  makings 
of  an  interesting  lad  hi  me;  but  I  declare  upon  my 
conscience  that  it  was  that  place  only  which  checked 
the  promise  for  ten  years  or  more,  and  might  have 
withered  it  altogether. 

My  father  was  an  idealist  of  1851;  he  showed  the 
enthusiasm  and  nursed  in  his  bosom  the  hopes  and 
beliefs  of  the  promoters  of  the  International  Exhibi- 
tion of  that  year.  There  was  a  plentiful  planting 
of  foreign  stock  in  England  after  that,  and  one  of  its 
weedy  saplings  was  an  International  Education  Com- 
pany, which  out  of  a  magniloquent  prospectus  and 
some  too-confident  shareholders  bore  one  fruit,  the 
London  International  College  at  Spring  Grove.  It 
never  came  to  maturity,  and  is  now  dropped  and 
returned  to  the  ground  of  all  such  schemes.  I  sup- 
pose  it  had  been  on  the  stalk  some  fifteen  years  when 
I  went  to  feed  of  it. 

The  scheme,  in  fact,  sprang  out  of  enthusiasm  and 
had  no  bottom  in  experience.  It  may  be  true  that 
all  men  are  brothers,  but  it  is  not  logical  to  infer 
from  that  that  all  brothers  are  the  better  for  each 
other's  society.  The  raw  Brazilians,  Chilians,  Nica- 
raguans  and  what  not  who  were  drawn  from  their 
native  forests  and  plunged  into  the  company  of 
blockish  Yorkshire  lads,  or  sharp-faced  London  boys, 


THE  GODS  IN  THE  SCHOOLHOUSE          55 

were  only  scared  into  rebellion  and  to  demonstra- 
tion after  their  manner.  They  used  the  knife  some- 
times; they  hardly  ever  assimilated;  and  they 
taught  us  nothing  that  we  were  the  better  of  knowing. 
Quite  the  contrary.  We  taught  them  football,  I 
think,  and  I  remember  a  negro  from  Bermuda,  a 
giant  of  a  fellow  who  raged  over  the  ground  like  a 
goaded  bull  when  that  game  was  being  played,  to 
the  consternation  of  his  opponents.  He  had  a 
younger  brother  with  inordinately  long  arms,  like  a 
great  lax  ape,  a  cheerful,  grinning,  harmless  creature 
as  I  remember  him.  He  was  a  football  player  too; 
his  hug  was  that  of  an  octopus  which  swallowed  you 
all.  As  for  the  English,  in  return  for  their  football 
lore  they  received  the  gift  of  tobacco.  I  learned  to 
smoke  at  fifteen  from  a  Chilian  called  Perez,  a  wiz- 
ened, preternaturally  wise,  old  youth.  Nobody  in 
the  world  could  have  been  wise  as  he  looked,  and 
nobody  else  in  the  school  as  dull  as  he  really  was. 
Over  this  motley  assembly  was  set  as  house-master 
a  ferocious  Scotchman  of  great  parts,  but  no  dis- 
cretion; and  there  were  assistants,  too,  of  scholarship  ' 
and  refinement,  who,  if  they  had  had  the  genius  for 
education,  without  which  these  things  are  nothing, 
might  have  put  humanity  into  some  of  us.  When  it 
was  past  the  time  I  discovered  this,  and  one  of  them 
became  my  friend  and  helper.  I  then  discovered 


56  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

the  tragedy  of  our  system  from  the  other  side.  For 
the  pain  is  a  two-edged  sword,  and  imbrues  the 
breast  of  the  pedagogue  even  while  it  bleeds  the  pu- 
•  pil  to  inanition.  That  poor  man,  scholar,  gentleman, 
humourist,  poet,  as  he  was,  held  boys  in  terror.  He 
misdoubted  them;  they  made  him  self-conscious, 
betrayed  him  into  strange  hidden  acts  of  violence, 
rendered  him  incapable  of  instruction  except  of  the 
most  conventional  kind.  All  his  finer  nature,  his 
humanism,  was  paralysed.  We  thought  him  a  poor 
fool,  and  got  a  crude  entertainment  out  of  his  antics. 
Actually  he  was  tormenting  in  a  flame;  and  we 
thought  his  contortions  ridiculous.  God  help  us  all, 
how  are  we  to  get  at  each  other,  caged  creatures  as 
we  are!  But  this  is  indeed  a  tragic  business,  and  I 
don't  want  you  to  tear  your  hair. 

I  remained  at  Spring  Grove,  I  think,  four  or  five 
years,  a  barren,  profitless  time.  I  remember  scarcely 
one  gleam  of  interest  which  pierced  for  more  than  a 
few  moments  the  thick  gloom  of  it.  The  cruel,  dull, 
false  gods  of  English  convention  (for  thought  it  is 
not)  held  me  fast;  masters  and  pupils  alike  were 
jailers  to  me.  I  ate  and  drank  of  their  provision 
and  can  recall  still  with  nausea  the  sour,  stale  taste, 
and  still  choke  with  the  memory  of  the  chaff  and  grit 
.  of  its  quality.  Accursed,  perverse  generation !  God 
'  forbid  that  any  child  of  mine  should  suffer  as  I  suf- 


THE  GODS  IN  THE  SCHOOLHOUSE         57 

fered,  starve  as  I  starved,  stray  where  I  was  driven 
to  stray.  The  English  boarding-school  system  is 
that  of  the  straw-yard  where  colts  are  broken  by 
routine,  and  again  of  the  farmyard  where  pups  are 
walked.  Drill  in  school,  laissez-faire  out  of  it.  It 
is  at  once  too  dull  and  too  indolent  to  recognise 
character  or  even  to  look  for  it;  it  recks  nothing  of 
early  development  or  late;  it  measures  young  hu- 
manity for  its  class-rooms  like  a  tailor,  with  the  yard 
measure.  The  discipline  of  boy  over  boy  is,  as 
might  be  expected,  brutal  or  bestial.  The  school- 
yard is  taken  for  the  world  in  small,  and  so  allowed 
to  be.  There  is  no  thought  taken,  or  at  least  be- 
trayed, that  it  is  nothing  more  than  a  preparation 
for  the  world  at  large.  There  is  no  reason,  however, 
to  suppose  that  the  International  College  was  worse 
than  any  other  large  boarding-school.  I  fancy,  in- 
deed, that  it  was  in  all  points  like  the  rest.  There 
were  no  traces  in  my  time  of  the  Brotherhood  of 
Man  about  it.  A  few  Portuguese,  a  negro  or  two 
were  there,  and  a  multitude  of  Jews.  But  I  fancy  I 
should  have  found  the  same  sort  of  thing  at  Eton. 

I  was  not  in  any  sense  suited  to  such  a  place  as 
this;  if  I  had  been  sent  to  travel  it  had  been  better 
for  me.  I  was  "difficult,"  not  because  I  was  stiff 
but  because  I  was  lax.  I  resisted  nothing  except  by 
inertia.  If  my  parents  did  not  know  me — and  how 


58  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

should  they? — if  I  did  not  know  myself,  and  I  did 
not,  my  masters,  for  their  part,  made  no  attempt  to 
know  me  nor  even  inquired  whether  there  might  be 
anything  to  know.  I  was  unpopular,  as  might  have 
been  expected,  made  no  friends,  did  no  good.  My 
1  brother,  on  the  other  hand,  was  an  ideal  schoolboy, 
diligent,  brisk,  lovable,  abounding  in  friendships, 
good  at  his  work  and  excellent  at  his  play.  His 
career  at  Spring  Grove  was  one  long  happy  triumph, 
and  he  deserved  it.  He  has  a  charming  nature,  and 
is  one  of  the  few  naturally  holy  persons  I  know. 

•  Wholesome,  thank  God,  we  all  are,  or  could  be; 

•  pious  we  nearly  all  are;  but  holiness  is  a  rare  quality. 

If  I  were  to  try  and  set  down  here  the  really 
happy  memories  which  I  have  of  Spring  Grove  they 
would  be  three.  The  first  was  the  revelation  of 

k  Greece  which  was  afforded  me  by  Homer  and  Plato. 
The  surging  music  and  tremendous  themes  of  the 
poet,  the  sweet  persuasion  of  the  sophist  were  a 
wonder  and  delight.  I  remember  even  now  the 
thrill  with  which  I  heard  my  form-master  translate 
for  us  the  prayer  with  which  the  Phcedrus  closes: 

4  "Beloved  Pan,  and  all  ye  other  gods  who  haunt  this 
place.  .  .  ."  Beloved  Pan!  My  knowledge  of  Pan 
was  of  the  vaguest,  and  yet  more  than  once  or  twice 
did  I  utter  that  prayer  wandering  alone  the  playing 
field,  or  watching  the  evening  mist  roll  down  the 


THE  GODS  IN  THE  SCHOOLHOUSE          59 

Thames  Valley  and  blot  up  the  elm  trees,  thick  and 
white,  clinging  to  the  day  like  a  fleece.  The  third  * 
Iliad  again  I  have  never  forgotten,  nor  the  twenty- 
fourth;  nor  the  picture  of  the  two  gods,  like  vulture 
birds,  watching  the  battle  from  the  dead  tree.  Nor, 
again,  do  I  ever  fail  to  recapture  the  beat  of  the  heart 
with  which  I  apprehended  some  of  Homer's  phrases:  » 
"Sandy  Pylos,"  Argos  "the  pasture  land  of  horses," 
or  "clear-seen"  Ithaca.  These  things  happened 
upon  by  chance  in  the  dusty  class-room,  in  the  close 
air  of  that  terrible  hour  from  two  to  three,  were  as  • 
the  opening  of  shutters  to  the  soul,  revealing  blue 
distances,  dim  fields,  or  the  snowy  peaks  of  moun- 
tains in  the  sun.  One  seemed  to  lift,  one  could  for- 
get. It  lasted  but  an  instant;  but  time  is  of  no 
account  to  the  inner  soul,  of  no  more  account  than 
it  is  to  God.  I  have  never  forgotten  these  moments 
of  escape;  nor  can  I  leave  Homer  without  confessing  . 
that  his  books  became  my  Bible.  I  accepted  his 
theology  implicitly;  I  swallowed  it  whole.  The 
Godhead  of  the  Olympians,  the  lesser  divinity  of 
Thetis  and  Alpheios  and  Xanthos  were  indisputable. 
They  were  infinitely  more  real  to  me  than  the  deities  . 
of  my  own  land;  and  though  I  have  found  room  for 
these  later  on  in  life,  it  has  not  been  by  displacing 
the  others.  Nor  is  there  any  need  for  that,  so  far 
as  I  see.  I  say  that  out  of  Homer  I  took  his  Gods; 


60  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

I  add  that  I  took  them  instantly.    I  seemed  to 

•  breathe  the  air  of  their  breath;  they  appealed  to  my 
,  reason;  I  knew  that  they  had  existed  and  did  still 

exist.  I  was  not  shocked  or  shaken  in  my  faith, 
either,  by  anything  I  read  about  them.  Young  as 
I  was  and  insipient,  I  was  prepared  for  what  is  called 
the  burlesque  Olympus  of  the  Iliad,  so  grievous  to 
Professor  Murray.  I  think  I  recognised  then,  what 

•  seems  perfectly  plain  to  me  now,  that  you  might  as 
well  think  meanly  of  a  God  of  Africa  because  the 
natives  make  him  of  a  cocoanut  on  a  stick,  as  of 
Zeus  and  Hera  because  Homer  says  that  they  played 
peccant  husband  and  jealous  wife.    If  Homer  halted 
it  is  rash  to  assume  that  Hephaistos  did.    The  pa- 
thetic fallacy  has  crept  in  here.    Mythology  was  one 
of  the  few  subjects  I  diligently  read  at  school,  and 
all  I  got  out  of  it  was  pure  profit — for  I  realised  that 

•  the  Gods7  world  was  not  ours,  and  that  when  their 
natures  came  in  conflict  with  ours  some  such  inter- 
pretation must  always  be  put  upon  their  victory. 
We  have  a  moral  law  for  our  mutual  wellbeing  which 
they  have  not.    We  translate  their  deeds  in  terms  of 
that  law  of  ours,  and  it  certainly  appears  like  a  stand- 
ing fact  of  Nature  that  when  the  beings  of  one  order 
come  into  commerce  with  those  of  another  the  result 
will  be  tragic.    There  is  only  a  harmony  in  acquies- 
cence, and  the  way  to  that  is  one  of  blood  and  tears. 


THE  GODS  IN  THE  SCHOOLHOUSE         6 1 

Brooding  over  all  this  I  discerned  dimly,  even  in 
that  dusty,  brawling  place,  and  time  showed  me 
more  and  more  clearly,  that  I  had  always  been  aware 
of  the  Gods  and  conscious  of  their  omnipresence. 
It  seemed  plain  to  me  that  Zeus,  whose  haunt  is 
dark  Dodona,  lorded  it  over  the  English  skies  and 
was  to  be  heard  in  the  thunder  crashing  over  the 
elms  of  Middlesex.  I  knew  Athene  in  the  shrill 
wind  which  battled  through  the  vanes  and  chimneys 
of  our  schoolhouse.  Artemis  was  Lady  of  my  coun- 
try. By  Apollo's  light  might  I  too  come  to  be  led. 
Poseidon  of  the  dark  locks  girdled  my  native  seas. 
I  had  had  good  reason  to  know  the  awfulness  of 
Pan,  and  guessed  that  some  day  I  should  couch  with 
Kore  the  pale  Queen.  I  called  them  by  these  names, 
since  these  names  expressed  to  me  their  essence:  you 
may  call  them  what  you  will,  and  so  might  I,  for  I 
had  not  then  reasoned  with  myself  about  names. 
By  their  names  I  knew  them.  The  Gods  were  there, 
indeed,  ignorantly  worshipped  by  all  and  sundry. 
Then  the  Dryad  of  my  earlier  experience  came  up 
again,  and  I  saw  that  she  stood  in  such  a  relation  to 
the  Gods  as  I  did,  perhaps,  to  the  Queen  of  England; 
that  she,  no  less  than  they,  was  part  of  a  wonderful 
order,  and  the  visible  expression  of  the  spirit  of  some 
Natural  Fact.  But  whether  above  all  the  Gods  and 
nations  of  men  and  beasts  there  were  one  God  and 


62  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

Father  of  us  all,  whether  all  Nature  were  one  vast 
synthesis  of  Spirit  having  innumerable  appearance 
but  one  soul,  I  did  not  then  stay  to  inquire,  and  am 
not  now  prepared  to  say.  I  don't  mean  by  that  at 
all  that  I  don't  believe  it.  I  do  believe  it,  but  by 
an  act  of  religion;  for  there  are  states  of  the  indi- 
vidual mind,  states  of  impersonal  soul  in  which  this 
belief  is  a  positive  truth,  in  the  which  one  exults 
madly,  or  by  it  is  humbled  to  the  dust.  Religion,  to 
my  mind,  is  the  result  of  this  consciousness  of  kin- 
ship with  the  principle  of  Life;  all  the  emotion  and 
moral  uplifting  involved  in  this  tremendous  certainty, 
and  all  the  lore  gathered  and  massed  about  it — this 
is  Religion.  Young  as  I  was  at  the  time  I  now 
speak  of,  ignorant  and  dumb  as  I  was,  I  had  my 
moments  of  exultation  and  humility, — moments  so 
wild  that  I  was  transported  out  of  myself.  I  left 
my  body  supine  in  its  narrow  bed  and  soared  above 
the  stars.  At  such  tunes,  in  an  aether  so  deep  that 
the  blue  of  it  looked  like  water,  I  seemed  to  see  the 
Gods  themselves,  a  shining  row  of  them,  upon  the 
battlements  of  Heaven.  I  called  Heaven  Olympus, 
and  conceived  of  Olympus  as  a  towered  city  upon  a 
white  hill.  Looming  up  out  of  the  deep  blue  arch, 
it  was  vast  and  covered  the  whole  plateau:  I  saw 
the  walls  of  it  run  up  and  down  the  ridges,  in  and 
out  of  the  gorges  which  cut  into  the  mass.  It  had 


THE   GODS  IN  THE  SCHOOLHOUSE          63 

gates,  but  I  never  saw  forms  of  any  who  entered  or 
left  it.  It  was  full  of  light,  and  had  the  look  of  habi- 
tancy  about  it;  but  I  saw  no  folk.  Only  at  rare 
moments  of  time  while  I  hovered  afar  off  looking  at 
the  wonder  and  radiance  of  it,  the  Gods  appeared 
above  the  battlements  in  a  shining  row — still  and 
awful,  each  of  them  ten  feet  high. 

These  were  fine  dreams  for  a  boy  of  sixteen  in  a 
schoolhouse  dormitory.  They  were  mine,  though: 
but  I  dreamed  them  awake.  I  awoke  before  they 
began,  always,  and  used  to  sit  up  trembling  and 
wait  for  them. 

An  apologue,  if  you  please.  On  the  sacred  road 
from  Athens  to  Eleusis,  about  midway  of  its  course, 
and  just  beyond  the  pass,  there  is  a  fork  in  it,  and  a 
stony  path  branches  off  and  leads  up  into  the  hills. 
There,  in  the  rock,  is  a  shallow  cave,  and  before  that, 
where  once  was  an  altar  of  Aphrodite,  the  ruins  of 
her  shrine  and  precinct  may  be  seen.  As  I  was  going 
to  Eleusis  the  other  day,  I  stopped  the  carriage  to 
visit  the  place.  Now,  beside  the  cave  is  a  niche, 
cut  square  in  the  face  of  the  rock,  for  offerings; 
and  in  that  niche  I  found  a  fresh  bunch  of  field  flow- 
ers, put  there  by  I  know  not  what  dusty-foot  way- 
farer. That  was  no  longer  ago  than  last  May,  and 
the  man  who  did  the  piety  was  a  Christian,  I  sup- 
pose. So  do  I  avow  myself,  without  derogation,  I 
hope,  to  the  profession;  for  no  more  than  Mr. 


64  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

Robert  Kirk,  a  minister  of  religion  in  Scotland  in 
the  seventeenth  century,  do  I  consider  that  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  Gods  is  incompatible  with  belief  in  God. 
There  is  a  fine  distinction  for  you:  I  believe  that  God 
exists;  I  infer  him  by  reason  stimulated  by  desire. 
But  I  know  that  the  Gods  exist  by  other  means  than 
those.  If  I  could  be  as  sure  of  God  as  I  am  of  the 
Gods,  I  might  perhaps  be  a  better  Christian,  but  I 
should  not  believe  any  less  in  the  Gods. 

I  found  religion  through  Homer:  I  found  poetry 
through  Milton,  whose  Comus  we  had  to  read  for 
examination  by  some  learned  Board.  If  any  one 
thing  definitely  committed  me  to  poesy  it  was  that 
poem;  and  as  has  nearly  always  happened  to  me, 
the  crisis  of  discovery  came  in  a  flash.  We  were  all 
there  ranked  at  our  inky  desks  on  some  drowsy  after- 
noon. The  books  lay  open  before  us,  the  lesson,  I 
suppose,  prepared.  But  what  followed  had  not 
been  prepared — that  some  one  began  to  read: 

"The  star  that  bids  the  shepherd  fold 
Now  the  top  of  Heav'n  doth  hold ; 
And  the  gilded  car  of  day 
His  glowing  axle  doth  allay 
In  the  steep  Al  tan  tic  stream  " — 

and  immediately,  in  a  moment,  in  the  twinkling  of 
an  eye,  it  was  changed — for  me — from  verse  to 
poetry;  that  is,  from  a  jingle  to  a  significant  fact. 


THE  GOfeS  IN  THE  SCHOOLHOUSE          65 

It  was  more  than  it  appeared;  it  was  transfigured; 
its  implication  was  manifest.  That's  all  I  can  say 
— except  this,  that,  untried  as  I  was,  I  jumped  into 
the  poetic  skin  of  the  thing,  and  felt  as  if  I  had 
written  it.  I  knew  all  about  it,  "e'l  chi,  e'l  quote"', 
I  was  privy  to  its  intricacy;  I  caught  without  in- 
struction the  alternating  beat  in  the  second  line,  and 
savoured  all  the  good  words,  gilded  car,  glowing  axle, 
Star  that  bids  the  shepherd  fold.  Allay  ravished  me, 
young  as  I  was.  I  knew  why  he  had  called  the 
Atlantic  stream  steep,  and  remembered  Homer's 
"STINGS  {JSaro?  alira  peeQpa."  Good  soul,  our  peda- 
gogue suggested  deep!  I  remember  to  this  hour  the 
sinking  of  the  heart  with  which  I  heard  him.  But 
the  flash  passed  and  darkness  again  gathered  about 
me,  the  normal  darkness  of  those  hateful  days. 
"Sabrina  fair"  lifted  it;  my  sky  showed  me  an  am- 
ber shaft.  I  am  recording  moments,  the  reader  will 
remember,  the  few  gleams  which  visited  me  in  youth. 
I  was  far  from  the  time  when  I  could  connect  them, 
see  that  poetry  was  the  vesture  of  religion,  the  woven 
garment  whereby  we  see  God.  Love  had  to  teach 
me  that.  I  was  not  born  until  I  loved. 

My  third  happy  memory  is  of  a  brief  and  idyllic 
attachment,  very  fervent,  very  romantic,  entirely 
my  own,  and  as  I  remember  it,  now,  entirely  beau- 
tiful. Nothing  remains  but  the  fragrance  of  it,  and 


66  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

its  dream-like  quality,  the  sense  I  have  of  straying 
with  the  beloved  through  a  fair  country.     Such 
things  assure  me  that  I  was  not  wholly  dead  during 
those  crushing  years  of  servitude. 
But  those  are,  as  I  say,  gleams  out  of  the  dark. 

•  They  comfort  me  with  the  thought  that  the  better 
part  of  me  was  not  dead,  but  buried  here  with  the 
worse.    They  point  also  to  the  truth,  as  I  take  it  to 

•  be,  that  the  lack  of  privacy  is  one  of  the  most  seri- 
ous detriments  of  public-school  life.    I  don't  say 

•  that  privacy  is  good  for  all  boys,  or  that  it  is  good 
for  any  unless  they  are  provided  with  a  pursuit.    It 
is  true  that  many  boys  seek  to  be  private  that  they 
may  be  vicious,  and  that  the  having  the  opportunity 
for  privacy  leads  to  vice.    But  that  is  nearly  always 

;  the  fault  of  the  masters.  Vice  is  due  to  the  need 
for  mental  or  material  excitement;  it  is  a  crude  sub- 
stitute for  romance.  If  a  boy  is  debarred  from  good 
romance,  because  he  doesn't  feel  it  or  hasn't  been 
taught  to  feel  it,  he  will  take  to  badj  It  is  nothing 
else  at  all:  he  is  bored.  And  remembering  that  a 
boy  can  only  think  of  one  thing  at  a  time,  the  single 

>  aim  of  the  master  should  be  to  give  every  boy  in  his 
charge  some  sane  interest  which  he  can  pursue  to 
the  death,  as  a  terrier  chases  a  smell,  in  and  out, 
up  and  down,  every  nerve  bent  and  quivering. 
There  is  a  problem  of  the  teaching  art  which  the 


THE  GODS  IN  THE  SCHOOLHOUSE         67 

College  at  Spring  Grove  made  no  attempt  to  solve 
while  I  was  there.  You  either  played  football  and 
cricket  or  you  were  negligible.  I  was  bad  at  both, 
was  negligible,  and  neglected. 

I  suspect  that  my  experiences  are  very  much  those 
of  other  people,  and  that  is  why  I  have  taken  the 
trouble  to  articulate  them,  and  perhaps  to  make 
them  out  more  coherent  than  they  were.  We  don't 
feel  in  images  or  think  in  words.  The  images  are 
about  us,  the  words  may  be  at  hand;  but  it  may 
well  be  that  we  are  better  without  them.  This 
world  is  a  tight  fit,  and  life  in  it,  as  the  Duke  said 
of  one  day  of  his  own  life,  is  "a  devilish  close-run 
thing."  .  If  the  blessed  Gods  and  the  legions  of  the 
half-goo!s  in  their  habit  as  they  live,  were  to  be  as 
clear  to  us  as  our  neighbour  Tom  or  our  chief  at  the 
office,  what  might  be  the  lot  of  Tom's  wife,  or  what 
the  security  of  our  high  stool  at  the  desk?  As  things 
are,  our  blank  misgivings  are  put  down  to  nerves, 
our  yearning  for  wings  to  original  sin.j_  The  police- 
man at  the  street  corner  sees  to  it,  for  our  good,  that 
we  put  out  of  sight  these  things,  and  so  we  grow 
rich  and  make  a  good  appearance.  It  is  only  when 
we  are  well  on  in  years  that  we  can  afford  to  be  pre- 
cise and,  looking  back,  to  remember  the  celestial 
light,  the  glory  and  the  freshness  of  the  dream  in 
which  we  walked  and  bathed  ourselves. 


THE  SOUL  AT  THE  WINDOW 

WHEN  I  had  been  in  London  a  year  or  two,  and 
the  place  with  its  hordes  was  become  less  strange 
and  less  formidable  to  me,  I  began  to  discover  it  for 
myself.  Gradually  the  towering  cliffs  resolved  them- 
selves into  houses,  and  the  houses  into  shrouded 
holds,  each  with  character  and  each  hiding  a  mys- 
tery. They  now  stood  solitary  which  had  before 
been  an  agglutinated  mass.  Childe  Roland  to  the 
Dark  Tower  came.  ...  I  knew  one  from  the  other  by 
sight,  and  had  for  each  a  specific  sensation  of  attrac- 
tion or  repulsion,  of  affection  or  terror.  I  read 
through  the  shut  doors,  I  saw  through  the  blank 
windows;  not  a  house  upon  my  daily  road  but  held 
a  drama  or  promised  a  tragedy.  I  had  no  sense  for 
comedy  in  those  days;  life  to  me,  waking  life,  was 
always  a  dreadful  thing.  And  sometimes  my  bodily 
eyes  had  glimpses  which  confirmed  my  fancy — unex- 
pected, sudden  and  vivid  flashes  behind  curtained 
windows.  I  once  saw  two  men  fighting,  shadowed 
black  upon  a  white  blind.  I  once  looked  out  of  a 
window  at  the  Army  and  Navy  Stores  into  a  mean 

68 


THE  SOUL  AT  THE  WINDOW  69 

bedroom  across  the  way.  There  was  a  maidservant 
in  there,  making  beds,  emptying  slops,  tidying  this 
and  that.  Quite  suddenly  she  threw  her  head  up 
with  a  real  despair,  and  next  moment  she  was  on 
1  her  knees  by  the  bed.  Praying !  I  never  saw  prayer 
like  that  in  this  country.  The  soul  went  streaming 
from  her  mouth  like  blown  smoke.  And  again,  one 
night,  very  late,  I  was  going  to  bed,  and  leaned  out 
of  my  window  for  air.  Before  me,  across  back  yards, 
leafless  trees,  and  a  litter  of  packing-cases  and  straw, 
rose  up  a  dark  rampart  of  houses,  in  the  midst  of  it  a 
lit  window.  I  saw  a  poorly  furnished  sitting-room — 
a  table  with  a  sewing  machine,  a  paraffin  lamp,  a 
chair  with  an  antimacassar.  A  man  in  his  shirt 
sleeves  sat  there  by  the  table,  smoking  a  pipe.  Then 
the  door  opened  and  a  tall,  slim  woman  came  in,  all 
in  white,  with  loose  dark  hair  floating  about  her 
shoulders.  She  stood  between  door  and  table  and 
rested  her  hand  upon  the  edge  of  the  table.  The 
man,  after  a  while  of  continuing  to  read,  'quite  sud- 
denly looked  up  and  saw  her.  They  looked  at  each 
other  motionless.  He  cast  down  his  paper,  sprang 
up  and  went  to  her.  He  fell  to  his  knees  before  her 
and  clasped  hers.  She  looked  across,  gravely  con- 
sidering, then  laid  her  hand  upon  his  head.  That  was 
all.  I  saw  no  more.  Husband  and  wife?  Mother 
and  son?  Sinner  and  Saviour?  What  do  I  know? 


70  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

As  with  the  houses,  homes  of  mystery,  so  with 
the  men  and  women  one  passed;  homes,  they  too, 
of  things  hidden  yet  more  deep.  The  noise  of  the 
streets,  at  first  paralysing,  died  down  to  a  familiar 
rumble,  and  the  ear  began  to  distinguish  voices  in 
the  tide.  Sounds  of  crying,  calls  for  help,  hailings, 
laughter,  tears,  separated  themselves  and  appealed. 
You  heard  them,  like  the  cries  of  the  drowning,  drift- 
ing by  you  upon  a  dark  tide-way.  You  could  do 
nothing;  a  word  would  have  broken  the  spell.  The 
mask  which  is  always  over  the  face  would  have  cov- 
ered the  tongue  or  throttled  the  larynx.  You  could 
do  nothing  but  hear. 

Finally,  the  passing  faces  became  sometimes  pene- 
trable, betrayed  by  some  chance  gleam  of  the  eyes, 
some  flicker  of  the  lips,  a  secret  to  be  shared,  or  con- 
veyed by  a  hint  some  stabbing  message  out  of  the 
deep  into  the  deep.  That  is  what  I  mean  by  the 
soul  at  the  window.  Every  one  of  us  lives  in  a 
guarded  house;  door  shut,  windows  curtained. 
Now  and  then,  however,  you  look  up  above  the 
street  level  and  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  scared  pris- 
oner inside.  He  may  be  a  satyr,  a  fairy,  an  ape  or 
an  angel;  he's  a  prisoner  anyhow,  who  sometimes 
comes  to  the  window  and  looks  strangely  out.  You 
may  see  him  there  by  chance,  saying  to  himself  like 
Chaucer's  Creseyde  in  the  temple,  "Ascaunces, 


THE  SOUL  AT  THE  WINDOW  71 

What!  May  I  not  stonden  here? "  And  I  found  out 
for  myself  that  there  is  scarcely  a  man  or  woman 
alive  who  does  not  hold  such  a  tenant  more  or  less 
deeply  within  his  house. 

Sometimes  the  walls  of  the  house  are  transparent, 
like  a  frog's  foot,  and  you  see  the  prisoner  throbbing 
and  quivering  inside.  This  is  rare.  Shelley's  house 
must  have  been  a  filmy  tenement  of  the  kind.  With 
children— if  you  catch  them  young  enough — it  is 
more  common.  I  remember  one  whom  I  used  to 
see  nearly  every  day,  the  child  of  poor  parents,  who 
kept  a  green-grocer's  shop  in  Judd  Street,  Saint 
Pancras,  a  still  little  creature  moving  about  in  worlds 
not  recognised.  She  was  slim  and  small,  fair-haired, 
honey-coloured,  her  eyes  wells  of  blue.  I  used  to 
see  her  standing  at  the  door  of  the  shop,  amid 
baskets  of  green  stuff,  crimsoned  rhubarb,  pyra- 
mided dates,  and  what  not.  I  never  saw  her  dirty 
or  untidy,  nor  heard  her  speak,  nor  saw  her  laugh. 
She  stood  or  leaned  at  the  lintel,  watching  I  know 
not  what,  but  certainly  not  anything  really  there,  as 
we  say.  She  appeared  to  be  looking  through  ob- 
jects rather  than  at  them.  I  can  describe  it  no 
otherwise  than  that  I,  or  another,  crossed  her  field 
of  vision  and  was  conscious  that  her  eyes  met  mine 
and  yet  did  not  see  me.  To  me  she  was  instantly 
remarkable,  not  for  this  and  not  for  any  beauty  she 


72  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

had — for  she  was  not  at  all  extraordinary  in  that 
quality — but  for  this,  that  she  was  not  of  our  kind. 
Surrounded  by  other  children,  playing  gaily,  circling 
about  her,  she  was  sui  generis.  She  carried  her  own 
atmosphere,  whereby  in  the  company  of  others  she 
seemed  unaccountable,  by  herself  only,  normal. 
Nature  she  fitted  perfectly,  but  us  she  did  not  fit. 
Now,  it  is  a  curious  thing,  accepted  by  all  vision- 
aries, that  a  supernatural  being,  a  spirit,  fairy,  not- 
human  creature,  if  you  see  it  among  animals,  beasts 
and  birds,  on  hills  or  in  the  folds  of  hills,  among  trees, 
by  waters,  in  fields  of  flowers,  looks  at  home  and  evi- 
dently is  so.  The  beasts  are  conscious  of  it,  know 
it  and  have  no  fear  of  it;  the  hills  and  valleys  are  its 
familiar  places  in  a  way  which  they  will  never  be 
to  the  likes  of  us.  But  put  a  man  beside  it  and  it 
becomes  at  once  supernatural.  I  have  seen  spirits, 
beings,  whatever  they  may  be,  in  empty  space,  and 
have  observed  them  as  part  of  the  landscape,  no 
more  extraordinary  than  grazing  cattle  or  wheeling 
plover.  Again  I  have  seen  a  place  thick  with  them, 
as  thick  as  a  London  square  in  a  snow-storm,  and  a 
man  walk  clean  through  them  unaware  of  their  ex- 
istence, and  make  them,  by  that  act,  a  mockery  of 
the  senses.  So  precisely  it  was  with  this  strange 
child,  unreal  to  me  when  she  was  real  to  everybody 
else. 


THE  SOUL  AT  THE  WINDOW  73 

She  had  a  name,  a  niche  in  the  waking  world. 
Marks,  Greengrocer,  was  the  inscription  of  the  shop. 
She  was  Elsie  Marks.  Her  father  was  a  stout, 
florid  man  of  maybe  fifty  years,  with  a  chin-beard 
and  light-blue  eyes.  Good-humoured  he  seemed,  and 
prosperous,  something  of  a  ready  wit,  a  respected 
and  respectable  man,  who  stamped  his  way  about  the 
solid  ground  in  a  way  which  defied  dreams. 

If  I  had  been  experienced,  I  should  have  remarked 
the  mother,  but  in  fact  I  barely  remember  her, 
though  I  spoke  with  her  one  day.  She  was  some- 
what heavy  and  grave,  I  think,  downcast  and  yet 
watchful.  She  did  her  business  efficiently,  without 
enthusiasm,  and  did  not  enter  into  general  conversa- 
tion with  her  customers.  Her  husband  did  that  part 
of  the  business.  Marks  was  a  merry  Jew.  I  bought 
oranges  of  her  once  for  the  sake  of  hearing  her  speak, 
and  while  she  was  serving  me  the  child  came  into 
the  shop  and  stood  by  her.  She  leaned  against  her 
rather  than  stood,  took  the  woman's  disengaged  arm 
and  put  it  round  her  neck.  Looks  passed  between 
them;  the  mother's  sharply  down,  the  child's  search- 
ingly  up.  On  either  side  there  was  pain,  as  if  each 
tried  to  read  the  other. 

I  was  very  shy  with  strangers.  The  more  I  wanted 
to  get  on  terms  with  them  the  less  I  was  able  to  do 
it.  I  asked  the  child  whether  she  liked  oranges. 


74  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

I  asked  the  child,  but  the  mother  answered  me, 
measuring  her  words. 

"She  likes  nothing  of  ours.  It's  we  that  like  and 
she  that  takes."  That  was  her  reply. 

"I  am  sure  that  she  likes  you  at  any  rate,"  I  said. 
Her  hold  on  the  child  tightened,  as  if  to  prevent  an 
escape. 

"She  should,  since  I  bore  her.  But  she  has  much 
to  forgive  me." 

Such  a  word  left  me  dumb.  I  was  not  then  able 
to  meet  women  on  such  terms.  Nor  did  I  then  un- 
derstand her  as  I  do  now. 

Here  is  another  case.  There  was  a  slatternly 
young  woman  whom  I  caught,  or  who  caught  me, 
unawares;  who  suddenly  threw  open  the  windows 
and  showed  me  things  I  had  never  dreamed. 

Opposite  the  chambers  in  R Buildings 

where  I  worked,  or  was  intended  to  work,  and  across 
a  wall,  there  was  a  row  of  tenements  called,  if  I  re- 
member, Gaylord's  Rents.  Part  mews,  part  ware- 
houses, and  all  disreputable,  the  upper  story  of  it, 
as  it  showed  itself  to  me  over  the  wall,  held  some  of 
the  frowsiest  of  London's  horde.  Exactly  before 
my  eyes  was  one  of  the  lowest  of  these  hovels,  the 
upper  part  of  a  stable,  I  imagine,  since  it  had,  in- 
stead of  a  window,  a  door,  of  which  half  was  always 
shut  and  half  always  open,  so  that  light  might  get 
in  or  the  tenants  lean  out  to  take  the  air. 


THE  SOUL  AT  THE  WINDOW  75 

Here,  and  so  leaning  her  bare  elbows,  I  saw  on 
most  days  of  the  week  a  slim  young  woman  airing 
herself — a  pale-faced,  curling-papered,  half-bodiced, 
unwashed  drab  of  a  girl,  who  would  have  had  shame 
written  across  her  for  any  one  to  read  if  she  had 
not  seemed  of  all  women  I  have  ever  seen  the  least 
shamefaced.  Her  brows  were  as  unwritten  as  a 
child's,  her  smile  as  pure  as  a  serapK's,  and  her  eyes 
blue,  unfaltering  and  candid.  She  laughed  a  greeting, 
exchanged  gossip,  did  her  sewing,  watched  events, 
as  the  case  might  be,  was  not  conscious  of  her  servi- 
tude or  anxious  to  market  it.  Sometimes  she  shared 
her  outlook  with  an  old  woman — a  horrible,  greasy 
go-between,  with  straggling  grey  hair  and  a  gin- 
inflamed  face.  She  chatted  with  this  beldame  hap- 
pily, she  cupped  her  vile  old  dewlap,  or  stroked  her 
dishonourable  head;  sometimes  a  man  in  shirt 
sleeves  was  with  her,  treated  her  familiarly,  with 
rude  embraces,  with  kisses,  nudges  and  leers.  She 
accepted  all  with  good-humour  and,  really,  complete 
good  breeding.  She  invited  nothing,  provoked  noth- 
ing, but  resented  nothing.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if 
all  these  things  were  indeed  nothing  to  her;  that  she 
hardly  knew  that  they  were  done;  as  if  her  soul 
could  render  them  at  their  proper  worth,  transmute 
them,  sherd  them  off,  discard  them.  It  was,  then, 
her  surface  which  took  them;  what  her  soul  received 
was  a  distillation,  an  essence. 


76  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

Then  one  night  I  had  all  made  plain.  She  en- 
tranced me  on  a  summer  night  of  stillness,  under  a 
full  yellow  moon.  I  was  working  late,  till  past  ten, 
past  eleven  o'clock,  and  looking  out  of  my  open 
window  suddenly  was  aware  of  her  at  hers.  The 
shutter  was  down,  both  wings  of  it,  and  she  stood 
hovering,  seen  at  full  length,  above  the  street.  She! 
Could  this  be  she?  It  was  so  indeed — but  she  was 
transfigured,  illuminated  from  within;  she  rayed 
forth  light.  The  moon  shone  full  upon  her,  and  re- 
vealed her  pure  form  from  head  to  foot  swathed  in 
filmy  blue — a  pale  green-blue,  the  colour  of  ocean 
water  seen  from  below.  Translucent  webbery,  what- 
ever it  was,  it  showed  her  beneath  it  as  bare  as  Venus 
was  when  she  fared  forth  unblemished  from  the  sea. 
Her  pale  yellow  hair  was  coiled  above  her  head;  her 
face  looked  mild  and  radiant  with  a  health  few  Lon- 
doners know.  Her  head  was  bent  in  a  considering 
way;  she  stood  as  one  who  is  about  to  plunge  into 
deep  water,  and  stands  hesitating  at  the  shock. 
Once  or  twice  she  turned  her  face  up,  to  bathe  it  in 
the  light.  I  saw  that  in  it  which  in  human  faces  I 
had  never  seen — communion  with  things  hidden 
from  men,  secret  knowledge  shared  with  secret  be- 
ings, assurance  of  power  above  our  hopes. 

Breathless  I  watched  her,  the  drab  of  my  daily 
observation,  radiant  now;  then  as  I  watched  she 


THE  SOUL  AT  THE  WINDOW  77 

stretched  out  her  arms  and  bent  them  together  like 
a  shield  so  that  her  burning  face  was  hidden  from 
me,  and  without  falter  or  fury  launched  herself  into 
the  air,  and  dropt  slowly  down  out  of  my  sight. 

Exactly  so  she  did  it.  As  we  may  see  a  pigeon  or 
chough  high  on  the  verge  of  a  sea-cliff  float  out  into 
the  blue  leagues  of  the  air,  and  drift  motionless  and 
light — or  descend  to  the  sea  less  by  gravity  than  at 
will — so  did  she.  There  was  nothing  premeditated, 
there  was  nothing  determined  on:  mood  was  im- 
mediately translated  into  ability — she  was  at  will 
lighter  or  heavier  than  the  air.  It  was  so  done  that 
here  was  no  shock  at  all— she  in  herself  foreshad- 
owed the  power  she  had.  Rather,  it  would  have 
been  strange  to  me  if,  irradiated,  transplendent  as 
she  was,  she  had  not  considered  her  freedom  and 
on  the  instant  indulged  it.  I  accepted  her  upon 
her  face  value  without  question — I  did  not  run  out 
to  spy  upon  her.  Ecce  unus  ^fortior  me ! 

In  this  case,  being  still  new  to  the  life  into  which 
I  was  gradually  being  drawn,  it  did  not  for  one  mo- 
ment occur  to  me  to  start  an  adventure  of  my  own. 
I  might  have  accosted  the  woman,  who  was,  as  the 
saying  goes,  anybody's  familiar;  or  I  might  have 
spied  for  another  excursion  of  her  spirit,  and,  with 
all  preparation  made,  have  followed  her.  But  I  did 
neither  of  these  things  at  the  time.  I  saw  her  next 


78  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

day  leaning  bare-elbowed  on  the  ledge  of  her  half- 
door,  her  hair  in  curl-papers,  her  face  the  pale  un- 
wholesome pinched  oval  of  most  London  women  of 
her  class.  Her  bodice  was  pinned  across  her  chest; 
she  was  coarse-aproned,  new  from  the  wash-tub  or 
the  grate.  Not  a  sign  upon  her  but  told  of  her 
frowsy  round.  The  stale  air  of  foul  lodgment  was 
upon  her.  I  found  out  indeed  this  much  about  her 
ostensible  state,  that  she  was  the  wife  of  a  cab- 
driver  whose  name  was  Ventris.  He  was  an  ill- 
conditioned,  sottish  fellow  who  treated  her  badly, 
but  had  given  her  a  child.  But  he  was  chiefly  on 
night- work  at  Euston,  and  the  man  whom  I  had  seen 
familiar  with  her  in  the  daytime  was  not  he.  Her 
reputation  among  her  neighbours  was  not  good.  She 
was,  in  fact,  no  better  than  she  should  be — or,  as  I 
prefer  to  put  it,  no  better  than  she  could  be. 

Yet  I  knew  her,  withal,  as  of  the  fairy-kind,  bound 
to  this  earth-bondage  by  some  law  of  the  Universe 
not  yet  explored;  not  pitiable  because  not  self -pi  ty- 
ing, and  (what  is  more  important)  not  reprehensible 
because  impossible  to  be  bound,  as  we  are,  soul  to 
body.  I  know  that  now,  but  did  not  know  it  then; 
and  yet — extraordinary  thing — I  was  never  shocked 
by  the  contrast  between  her  two  states  of  being. 
This  is  to  me  a  clear  and  certain  evidence  of  their 
reality — just  as  it  is  evidence  to  me  that  when,  at 


THE  SOUL  AT  THE  WINDOW  79 

ten  years  old,  I  seemed  to  see  the  boy  in  the  wood, 
I  really  did  see  him.  An  hallucination  or  a  dream 
upsets  your  moral  balance.  The  things  impressed 
upon  you  are  abnormal;  and  the  abnormal  disturbs 
you.  Now  these  apparitions  did  not  seem  abnormal. 
I  saw  nothing  wonderful  in  Mrs.  Ventris's  act.  I 
was  impressed  by  it,  I  was  excited  by  it,  as  I  still  am 
by  a  convulsion  of  nature — a  thunder-storm  in  the 
Alps,  for  instance,  a  water-spout  at  sea.  Such  things 
hold  beauty  and  terror;  they  entrance,  they  appal; 
but  they  never  shock.  They  happen,  and  they  are 
right.  I  have  not  seen  what  people  call  a  ghost, 
and  I  have  often  been  afraid  lest  I  should  see  one. 
But  I  know  very  well  that  if  ever  I  did  I  should  have 
no  fear.  I  know  very  well  that  a  natural  fact  im- 
presses its  conformity  with  law  upon  you  first  and 
last.  It  becomes,  on  the  moment  of  its  appearance, 
a  part  of  the  landscape.  If  it  does  not,  it  is  an  hal- 
lucination, or  a  freak  of  the  imagination,  and  will 
shock  you.  I  have  much  more  extraordinary  ex- 
periences than  this  to  relate,  but  there  will  be  noth- 
ing shocking  in  these  pages — at  least  nothing  which 
gave  me  the  least  sensation  of  shock.  One  of  them 
— a  thing  extraordinary  to  all — must  occupy  a 
chapter  by  itself.  I  cannot  precisely  fit  a  date  to  it, 
though  I  shall  try.  And  as  it  forms  a  whole,  hav- 
ing a  beginning,  a  middle  and  an  end,  I  shall  want 


8o  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

to  depart  from  my  autobiographical  plan  and  put 
it  in  as  a  whole.  The  reader  will  please  to  recollect 
that  it  did  not  work  itself  out  in  my  consciousness 
by  a  flash.  The  first  stages  of  it  came  so,  in  flashes 
of  revelation;  but  the  conclusion  was  of  some  years 
later,  when  I  was  older  and  more  established  in  the 
world. 

But  before  I  embark  upon  it  I  should  like  to  make 
a  large  jump  forward  and  finish  with  the  young 
woman  of  Gaylord's  Rents.  It  was  by  accident 
that  I  happened  upon  her  at  her  mysteries,  at  a  later 
day  when  I  was  living  in  London,  in  Camden  Town. 

By  that  time  I  had  developed  from  a  lad  of  inar- 
ticulate mind  and  unexpressed  desires  into  a  sentient 
and  self-conscious  being.  I  was  more  or  less  of  a 
man,  not  only  adventurous  but  bold  in  the  pursuit 
of  adventure.  I  lived  for  some  two  or  three  years 
in  that  sorry  quarter  of  London  in  complete  solitude 
— "in  poverty,  total  idleness  and  the  pride  of  litera- 
ture," like  Doctor  Johnson,  for  though  I  wrote  little 
I  read  much,  and  though  I  wrote  little  I  was  most 
conscious  that  I  was  about  to  write  much.  It  was 
a  period  of  brooding,  of  mewing  my  youth,  and  what- 
ever facility  of  imagination  and  expression  I  have 
since  attained  I  owe  very  much  to  my  hermitage  in 
Albert  Street. 


THE  SOUL  AT  THE  WINDOW  81 

If  I  walked  in  those  days  it  was  by  night.  Lon- 
don at  night  is  a  very  different  place  from  the  town 
of  business  and  pleasure  of  ordinary  acquaintance. 
During  the  day  I  fulfilled  my  allotted  hours  at  the 
desk;  but  immediately  they  were  over  I  returned 
to  my  lodgings,  got  out  my  books,  and  sat  enthralled 
until  somewhere  near  midnight.  But  then,  instead 
of  going  to  bed,  I  was  called  by  the  night,  and  forth 
I  sallied  all  agog.  I  walked  the  city,  the  embank- 
ment, skirted  the  parks,  unless  I  were  so  fortunate 
as  to  slip  in  before  gate-shutting.  Often  I  was  able 
to  remain  in  Kensington  Gardens  till  the  opening 
hour.  Highgate  and  its  woods,  Parliament  Hill 
with  its  splendid  panorama  of  twinkling  beacons 
and  its  noble  tent  of  stars,  were  great  fields  for  me. 
Hampstead  Heath,  Wimbledon,  even  Richmond  and 
Bushey  have  known  me  at  their  most  secret  hour. 
Such  experiences  as  I  have  had  of  the  preternatural 
will  find  their  place  in  this  book,  but  not  their  chron- 
ological place,  for  the  simple  reason  that,  as  I  kept 
no  diary,  I  cannot  remember  in  what  order  of  time 
they  befell  me.  But  it  was  on  the  southern  slope 
of  Parliament  Hill  that  I  came  again  upon  the  fairy- 
woman  of  Gaylord's  Rents. 

I  was  there  at  midnight,  a  mild  radiant  night  of 
late  April.  There  were  sheep  at  graze  there,  for 
though  it  was  darkish  under  the  three-quarter  moon, 


82  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

I  was  used  to  the  dark,  and  could  see  them,  a  woolly 
mass,  quietly  feeding  close  together.  I  saw  no 
shepherd  anywhere;  but  I  remember  that  his  dog 
sat  on  his  haunches  apart,  watching  them.  He  was 
prick-eared,  bright-eyed;  he  grinned  and  panted 
intensely.  I  didn't  then  know  why  he  was  so  ex- 
cited, but  very  soon  I  did. 

I  became  aware,  gradually,  that  a  woman  stood 
among  the  sheep.  She  had  not  been  there  when  I 
first  saw  them,  I  am  sure;  nor  did  I  see  her  approach 
them  or  enter  their  school.  Yet  there  she  was  in 
the  midst  of  them,  seen  now  by  me  as  she  had  evi- 
dently been  seen  for  some  time  by  the  dog,  seen,  I 
suppose,  by  the  sheep — at  any  rate  she  stood  in  the 
midst  of  them,  as  I  say,  with  her  hand  actually  upon 
the  shoulder  of  one  of  them — but  not  feared  or 
doubted  by  any  soul  of  us.  The  dog  was  vividly 
interested,  but  did  not  budge;  the  sheep  went  on 
feeding;  I  stood  bolt  upright,  watching. 

I  knew  her  the  moment  I  saw  her.  She  was  the 
exquisitely  formed,  slim  and  glowing  creature  I  had 
seen  before,  when  she  launched  herself  into  the  night 
as  a  God  of  Homer — Hermes  or  Thetis — launched 
out  from  Olympus'  top  into  the  sea — "cf?  alOepas  ep- 
•ircve  TroWp,"  and  words  fail  me  to  describe  the  per- 
fection of  her  being,  a  radiant  simulacrum  of  our 
own,  the  inconscient  self-sufficiency,  the  buoyancy 


THE  SOUL  AT  THE  WINDOW  83 

and  freedom  which  she  showed  me.  You  may  some- 
times see  boys  at  their  maddest  tip  of  expectation 
stand  waiting  as  she  now  stood,  quivering  on  the 
extreme  edge  of  adventure;  yet  even  in  their  case 
there  is  a  consciousness  of  well  being,  a  kind  of  roll- 
ing of  anticipation  upon  the  palate,  a  getting  of  the 
flavours  beforehand.  That  involves  a  certain  dissi- 
pation of  activity;  but  here  all  was  concentrated. 
The  whole  nature  of  the  creature  was  strung  to  one 
issue  only,  to  that  point  when  she  could  fling  head- 
long into  activity — an  activity  in  which  every  fibre 
and  faculty  would  be  used.  A  comparison  of  the 
fairy-kind  with  human  beings  is  never  successful, 
because  into  our  images  of  human  beings  we  always 
import  self-consciousness.  They  know  what  they 
are  doing.  Fairies  do  not.  But  wait  a  moment; 
there  is  a  reason.  Human  creatures,  I  think,  know 
what  they  are  doing  only  too  well,  because  perform- 
ance never  agrees  with  desire.  They  know  what 
they  are  doing  because  it  is  never  exactly  what  they 
meant  to  do,  or  what  they  wanted  to  do.  Now,  with 
fairies,  desire  to  do  and  performance  are  instinctive 
and  simultaneous.  If  they  think,  they  think  in 
action.  In  this  they  are  far  more  like  animals  than 
human  creatures,  although  the  form  in  which  they 
appear  to  us,  their  shape  and  colouring  are  like  ours, 
enhanced  and  refined.  Here  now  stood  this  crea- 


84  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

ture  in  the  semblance  of  a  woman  glorified,  quiver- 
ing; and  so,  perched  high  on  his  haunches,  sat  the 
shepherd's  dog,  and  no  one  could  look  at  the  two 
and  not  see  their  kinship.  Arriere-pensee  they  had 
none — and  all's  said  in  that.  They  were  shameless, 
and  we  are  full  of  shame.  There's  the  difference; 
and  it  is  a  gulf. 

After  a  while  of  this  quivering  suspense  she  gave 
a  low  call,  a  long  mellow  and  tremulous  cry  which, 
gentle  as  it  was,  startled  by  its  suddenness,  as  the 
unexpected  call  of  a  water-fowl  out  of  the  reeds  of 
a  pond  makes  the  heart  jump  toward  the  throat. 
It  was  like  some  bird's  call,  but  I  know  of  no  bird's 
with  which  to  get  a  close  comparison.  It  had  the 
soft  quality,  soft  yet  piercing,  of  a  redshank's,  but 
it  shuddered  like  an  owl's.  And  she  held  it  on  as 
an  owl  does.  But  it  was  very  musical,  soft  and  open- 
throated,  and  carried  far.  It  was  answered  from  a 
distance,  first  by  a  single  voice;  but  then  another 
took  it  up,  and  another;  and  then  another.  Slowly 
so  the  soft  night  was  filled  with  musical  cries  which 
quavered  about  me  as  fitfully  as  fire-flies  gleam  and 
glance  in  all  quarters  of  a  garden  of  olive-trees.  It 
was  enchantment  to  the  ear,  a  ravishing  sound;  but 
it  was  my  eyes  which  claimed  me  now,  for  soon  I  saw 
them  coming  from  all  quarters.  Or  rather,  I  saw 
them  there,  for  I  can't  say  definitely  that  I  saw  any 


THE  SOUL  AT  THE  WINDOW  85 

one  of  them  on  the  way.  It  is  truer  to  say  that  I 
looked  and  they  were  there.  Where  had  been  one 
were  now  two.  Now  two  were  five;  now  five  were 
a  company;  now  the  company  was  a  host.  I  have 
no  idea  how  many  there  were  of  them  at  any  time; 
but  when  they  joined  hands  and  set  to  whirling  in  a 
ring  they  seemed  to  me  to  stretch  round  Parliament 
Hill  in  an  endless  chain. 

How  can  I  be  particular  about  them?  They  were 
of  both  sexes — that  was  put  beyond  doubt;  they 
were  garbed  as  the  first  of  them  in  something  trans- 
lucent and  grey.  It  had  been  quite  easy  in  the 
lamplight  to  see  the  bare  form  of  the  woman  whom 
I  first  saw  in  Gaylord's  Rents.  It  was  plain  to  me 
that  her  companions  were  in  the  same  kind  of  dress. 
I  don't  think  they  had  girdles;  I  think  their  arms 
and  legs  were  bare.  I  should  describe  the  garment 
as  a  sleeveless  smock  to  the  knees,  or  perhaps,  more 
justly,  as  a  sack  of  silky  gauze  with  a  hole  for  the 
head  and  two  for  the  arms.  That  was  the  effect 
of  it.  It  hung  straight  and  took  the  folds  natural  to 
it.  It  was  so  light  that  it  clung  closely  to  the  body 
where  it  met  the  air.  What  it  was  made  of  I  have 
no  notion;  but  it  was  transparent  or  nearly  so.  I 
am  pretty  sure  that  its  own  colour  was  grey. 

They  greeted  each  other;  they  flitted  about  from 
group  to  group  greeting;  and  they  greeted  by  touch- 


86  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

ing,  sometimes  with  their  hands,  sometimes  with 
their  cheeks.  They  neither  kissed  nor  spoke.  I 
.  never  saw  them  kiss  even  when  they  loved — which 
they  rarely  did.  I  saw  one  greeting  between  two 
females.  They  ran  together  and  stopped  short 
within  touching  distance.  They  looked  brightly 
and  intently  at  each  other,  and  leaning  forward  ap- 
proached their  cheeks  till  they  touched.1  They 
touched  by  the  right,  they  touched  by  the  left. 
Then  they  took  hands  and  drew  together.  By  a 
charming  movement  of  confidence  one  nestled  to 
the  side  of  the  other  and  resting  her  head  looked  up 
and  laughed.  The  taller  embraced  her  with  her 
arm  and  held  her  for  a  moment.  The  swiftness  of 
the  act  and  its  grace  were  beautiful  to  see.  Then 
hand  in  hand  they  ran  to  others  who  were  a  little 
further  off.  The  elder  and  taller  had  a  wild  dark 
face  with  stern  lips,  like  a  man's;  the  younger  was 
a  beautiful  little  creature  with  quick,  squirrel's 
motions.  I  remember  her  hair,  which  looked  white 
in  that  light,  but  was  no  doubt  lint  colour.  It  was 
extremely  long,  and  so  fine  that  it  clung  to  her  shoul- 
ders and  back  like  a  web  of  thin  silk. 
They  began  to  play  very  soon  with  a  zest  for  mere 

1 1  argue  from  this  peculiar  manner  of  greeting,  which  I  have  observed 
several  times,  that  these  beings  converse  by  contact,  as  dogs,  cats, 
mice,  and  other  creatures  certainly  do.  I  don't  say  that  they  have  no 
other  means  of  converse;  but  I  am  sure  I  am  exact  in  saying  that  they 
have  no  articulate  speech. 


THE  SOUL  AT  THE  WINDOW  87, 

irresponsible  movement  which  I  have  never  seen  in 
my  own  kind.  I  have  seen  young  foxes  playing, 
and  it  was  something  like  that,  only  incomparably 
more  graceful.  Greyhounds  give  a  better  compari- 
son where  the  rippling  of  the  body  is  more  expressive 
of  their  speed  than  the  flying  of  their  feet.  These 
creatures  must  have  touched  the  earth,  but  their 
bodies  also  ran.  And  just  as  young  dogs  play  for 
the  sake  of  activity,  without  method  or  purpose,  so 
did  these;  and  just  as  with  young  animals  the  sexes 
mingle  without  any  hint  of  sexuality,  so  did  these. 
If  there  was  love-making  I  saw  nothing  of  it  there. 
They  met  on  exact  equality  so  far  as  I  could  judge, 
the  male  not  desirous,  the  female  not  conscious  of 
being  desired. 

But  it  was  a  mad  business  under  the  cloudy  moon. 
It  had  a  dreamlike  element  of  riot  and  wild  triumph. 
I  suppose  I  must  have  been  there  for  two  or  three 
hours,  during  all  which  time  their  swift  play  was 
never  altogether  stopped.  There  were  interludes  to 
be  seen,  when  some  three  or  four  grew  suddenly  tired 
and  fell  out.  They  threw  themselves  down  on  the 
sward  and  lay  panting,  beaming,  watching  the 
others,  or  they  disappeared  into  the  dark  and  were 
lost  in  the  thickets  which  dot  the  ground.  Then 
finally  I  saw  the  great  whirling  ring  of  them  form — 
under  what  common  impulse  to  frenzy  I  cannot 


88  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

divine.  There  was  no  signal,  no  preparation,  but 
as  if  fired  in  unison  they  joined  hands,  and  spreading 
out  to  a  circumference  so  wide  that  I  could  distin- 
guish nothing  but  a  ring  of  light,  they  whirled  faster 
and  faster  till  the  speed  of  them  sang  in  my  ears  like 
harps,  and  whirling  so,  melted  away. 

Later  on  and  in  wilder  surroundings  than  this  I 
saw,  and  shall  relate  in  its  place,  a  dance  of  Oreads. 
It  differed  in  detail  from  this  one,  but  not,  I  think, 
in  any  essential.  This  was  my  first  experience  of 
the  kind. 


QUIDNUNC 

I  WAS  so  fired  by  that  extraordinary  adventure, 
that  I  think  I  could  have  overcome  my  constitu- 
tional timidity  and  made  myself  acquainted  with 
the  only  actor  in  it  who  was  accessible  if  I  had  not 
become  involved  hi  another  matter  of  the  sort.  But 
I  don't  know  that  I  should  have  helped  myself 
thereby.  To  the  night  the  things  of  the  night  per- 
tain. If  I  could  have  had  speech  with  Mrs.  Ventris 
in  that  season  of  her  radiancy  there  would  have  been 
no  harm;  but  by  day  she  was  another  creature. 
Thereby  contact  was  impossible  because  it  would 
have  been  horrible.  It  is  true  that  a  certain  can- 
dour of  conduct  distinguished  her  from  the  frowsy 
drabs  with  whom  she  must  have  jostled  in  public- 
house  bars  or  rubbed  elbows  at  lodging-house  doors, 
a  sort  of  unconsciousness  of  evil,  which  I  take  to 
have  been  due  to  an  entire  absence  of  a  moral  sense. 
It  is  probable  that  she  was  not  a  miserable  sinner 
because  she  did  not  know  what  was  miserable  sin. 
Heat  and  cold  she  knew,  hunger  and  thirst,  rage  and 

kindness.     She  could  not  be  unwomanly  because  she 

89 


go  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

was  not  woman,  nor  good  because  she  could  not  be 
bad.  But  I  could  have  been  very  bad;  and  to  me 
she  was,  luckily,  horrible.  I  could  not  divorce  her 
two  apparent  natures,  still  less  my  own.  We  are 
bound — all  of  us — by  our  natures,  bound  by  them  and 
bounded.  I  could  not  have  touched  the  pitch  she 
lived  with,  the  pitch  of  which  she  was,  without  defile- 
ment. Let  me  hope  that  I  realised  that  much.  I 
shall  not  say  how  my  feet  burned  to  enter  that  slum 
of  squalor  where  hovered  this  bird  of  the  night,  un- 
less I  add,  as  I  can  do  with  truth,  that  I  did  not 
slake  them  there.  I  saw  her  on  and  off  afterward 
for  a  year,  perhaps;  but  tenancies  are  short  in  Lon- 
don. There  was  a  flitting  during  one  autumn  when 
I  was  away  on  vacation,  and  I  came  back  to  see  new 
faces  in  the  half-doorway  and  other  elbows  on  the 
familiar  ledge. 

But  as  I  have  said  above,  a  new  affair  engrossed 
me  shortly  after  my  night  pageant  on  Parliament 
Hill.  This  was  concerned  with  a  famous  personage 
whom  all  knowing  London  (though  I  for  one  had  not 
known  it)  called  Quidnunc. 

But  before  I  present  to  the  curious  reader  the  facts 
of  a  case  which  caused  so  much  commotion  in  dis- 
tinguished bosoms  of  the  late  "eighties,"  I  think  I 
should  say  that,  while  I  have  a  strong  conviction  as 
to  the  identity  of  the  person  himself,  I  shall  not  ex- 


QUIDNUNC  91 

press  it.  I  accept  the  doctrine  that  there  are  some 
names  not  to  be  uttered.  Similarly  I  shall  neither 
defend  nor  extenuate;  if  I  throw  it  out  at  all  it  will 
be  as  a  hint  to  the  judicious,  or  a  clew,  if  you  like, 
to  those  who  are  groping  a  way  in  or  out  of  the  laby- 
rinth of  Being.  To  me  two  things  are  especially 
absurd:  one  is  that  the  trousered,  or  skirted,  forms 
we  eat  with,  walk  with,  or  pass  unheeded,  are  all  the 
population  of  our  world;  the  other,  that  these  crea- 
tures, ostensibly  men  or  women  with  fancies,  hopes, 
fears,  appetites  like  our  own,  are  necessarily  of  the 
same  nature  as  ourselves.  If  beings  from  another 
sphere  should,  by  intention  or  chance,  meet  and 
mingle  with  us,  I  don't  see  how  we  could  apprehend 
them  at  all  except  in  our  own  mode,  or  unless  they 
were,  so  to  speak,  translated  into  our  idiom.  But 
enough  of  that.  The  year  in  which  I  first  met  Quid- 
nunc, so  far  as  my  memory  serves  me,  was  1886. 

I  was  in  those  days  a  student  of  the  law,  with 
chambers  in  Gray's  Inn  which  I  daily  attended;  but 
being  more  interested  in  palaeography  than  in  mod- 
ern practice,  and  intending  to  make  that  my  par- 
ticular branch  of  effort,  I  spent  much  of  my  time  at 
the  Public  Record  Office;  indeed,  a  portion  of  every 
working  day.  The  track  between  R Build- 
ings and  Rolls  Yard  must  have  been  sensibly  thinned 


92  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

by  my  foot-soles;  there  can  have  been  few  of  the 
frequenters  of  Chancery  Lane,  Bedford  Row  and 
the  squares  of  Gray's  Inn  who  were  not  known  to 
me  by  sight  or  concerning  whom  I  had  not  imagined 
(or  discerned)  circumstances  invisible  to  their  friends 
or  themselves  to  account  for  their  acts  or  ap- 
pearances. Among  these  innumerable  personages — 
portly  solicitors,  dashing  clerks,  scriveners,  racing 
tipsters,  match-sellers,  postmen,  young  ladies  of 
business,  young  ladies  of  pleasure,  clients  descending 
out  of  broughams,  clients  keeping  rendezvous  in 
public-houses,  and  what  not — Quidnunc's  may  well 
have  been  one;  but  I  believe  that  it  was  in  War- 
wick Court  (that  passage  from  Holborn  into  the  Inn) 
that,  quite  suddenly,  I  first  saw  him,  or  became  aware 
that  I  saw  him;  for  being,  as  he  was,  to  all  appear- 
ance an  ordinary  telegraphic  messenger,  I  may  have 
passed  him  daily  for  a  year  without  any  kind  of 
notice.  But  on  a  day  in  the  early  spring  of  1886 — 
mid-April  at  a  guess — I  came  upon  him  in  such  a 
way  as  to  remark  him  incurably.  I  saw  before  me 
on  that  morning  of  tender  leafage,  of  pale  sunlight 
and  blue  mist  contending  for  the  day,  a  strangely 
assorted  pair  proceeding  slowly  toward  the  Inn.  A 
telegraph  boy  was  one;  by  his  side  walked,  vehe- 
mently explaining,  a  tall,  elderly  solicitor — white- 
whiskered,  drab-spatted,  frock-coated,  eye-glassed, 


QUIDNUNC  93 

silk-hatted — in  every  detail  the  trusted  family  law- 
yer. I  knew  the  man  by  sight,  and  I  knew  him 
by  name  and  repute.  He  was,  let  me  say — for  I 
withhold  his  real  name — George  Lumley  Fowkes,  of 
Fowkes,  Vizard  and  Fowkes,  respectable  head  of  a 
more  than  respectable  firm;  and  here  he  was,  with 
his  hat  pushed  back  from  his  dewy  forehead,  tip- 
toeing, protesting,  extenuating  to  a  slip  of  a  lad  in 
uniform.  The  positions  of  the  odd  pair  were  un- 
accountably reversed;  Jack  was  better  than  his 
master,  the  deference  was  from  the  elder  to  the  brat. 
The  stoop  of  Fowkes's  shoulder,  the  anxious  angle 
of  his  head,  his  care  to  listen  to  the  little  he  got— 
and  how  little  that  was  I  could  not  but  observe — his 
frequent  ejaculations  of  "God  bless  my  soul!"  his 
deep  concern — and  the  boy's  unconcern,  curtly  ex- 
pressed, if  expressed  at  all — all  this  was  singular. 
So  much  more  than  singular  was  it  to  myself  that  it 
enthralled  me. 

They  stopped  at  the  gateway  which  admits  you 
to  Bedford  Row  to  finish  their  colloquy.  The  halt 
was  made  by  Fowkes,  barely  acquiesced  in  by  his 
companion.  Poor  old  Fowkes,  what  with  his  asthma, 
the  mopping  of  his  head,  the  flacking  of  his  long 
fingers,  exhibited  signals  of  the  highest  distress.  "I 
need  hardly  assure  you,  sir  ..."  I  heard;  and  then, 
"  Believe  me,  sir,  when  I  say.  .  .  ."  He  was  mark- 


94  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

ing  time,  unhappy  gentleman,  for  with  such  phrases 
does  the  orator  eke  out  his  waning  substance.  The 
lad  listened  in  a  critical,  staring  mood,  and  once  or 
twice  nodded.  While  I  was  wondering  how  long  he 
was  going  to  put  up  with  it,  presently  he  jerked  his 
head  back  and  showed  Fowkes,  by  the  look  he  gave 
him,  that  he  had  had  enough  of  him.  The  old 
lawyer  knew  it  for  final,  for  he  straightened  his  back, 
then  his  hat,  touched  the  brim  and  made  a  formal 
bow.  "I  leave  it  so,  sir,"  he  said;  "I  am  content 
to  leave  it  so;"  and  then,  with  every  mark  of  respect, 
he  went  his  way  into  Bedford  Row.  I  noticed  that 
he  walked  on  tiptoe  for  some  yards,  and  then  more 
quickly,  flapping  his  arms  to  his  sides. 

The  boy  stood  thoughtful  where  he  was,  com- 
muning by  the  looks  of  him  quite  otherwhere,  and 
I  had  the  opportunity  to  consider  him.  He  appeared 
to  be  a  handsome,  well-built  lad  of  fifteen  or  so,  big 
for  his  age,  and  precocious.  By  that  I  mean  that 
his  scrutiny  of  life  was  mature;  that  he  looked  ca- 
pable, far  beyond  the  warrant  of  his  years.  He  was 
ruddy  of  complexion,  freckled,  and  had  a  square 
chin.  His  eyes  were  light  grey,  with  dark  lashes  to 
them;  they  were  startlingly  light  and  bright  for 
such  a  sunburnt  face,  and  seemed  to  glow  in  it  like 
steady  fires.  It  was  in  them  that  resided,  that  sat, 
as  it  were,  enthroned,  that  mature,  masterful  ex- 


QUIDNUNC  95 

pression  which  I  never  saw  before  or  since  in  one  so 
young.  I  have  seen  the  eyes  of  children  look  as  if 
they  were  searching  through  our  world  into  another; 
that  is  almost  habitual  in  children.  But  here  was 
one,  apparently  a  boy,  who  seemed  to  read  into  our 
circumstances  (as  you  or  I  into  a  well-studied  book) 
as  though  they  held  nothing  inexplicable,  nothing 
unaccounted  for.  Beyond  these  singular  two  eyes  of 
his,  his  smiling  mouth,  with  its  reminder  of  archaic 
statuary,  was  perhaps  his  only  noticeable  feature. 
He  wore  the  ordinary  uniform  of  a  telegraphic  mes- 
senger, which  in  those  days  was  grey,  with  a  red  line 
down  the  trousers  and  a  belt  for  the  tunic.  His 
boots  were  of  the  service  pattern,  so  were  his  ankle- 
jacks.  His  hands  were  not  cleaner  than,  they  ought 
to  have  been,  his  nails  well  bitten  back.  Such  was  he. 

Studying  him  closely  over  the  top  of  my  news- 
paper, by-and-by  he  fixed  me  with  his  intent,  bright 
eyes.  My  heart  beat  quicker;  but  when  he  smiled 
— like  the  Pallas  of  ^Egina — I  smiled  too.  Then, 
without  varying  his  expression,  even  while  he  smiled 
upon  me,  he  vanished. 

Vanished!  There's  no  other  word  for  it:  he  van- 
ished; I  did  not  see  him  go;  I  don't  know  whether 
he  went  or  where  he  went.  At  one  moment  he  was 
there,  smiling  at  me,  looking  into  my  eyes;  at  the 
next  moment  he  was  not  there.  That's  all  there  is  to 


96  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

say  about  it.     I  flashed  a  glance  through  the  gate 

into  Bedford  Row,  another  up  to  R Buildings, 

and  even  ran  to  the  corner  which  showed  me  the 
length  and  breadth  of  Field  Place.  He  was  not 
gone  any  of  these  ways.  These  things  are  certain. 

Now  for  the  sequel.  Mere  fortune  led  me  at  four 
that  afternoon  into  Bedford  Row.  A  note  had  been 
put  into  my  hands  at  the  Record  Office  inviting  me 
to  call  upon  a  client  whose  chambers  were  in  that 
quarter,  and  I  complied  with  it  directly  my  work 
was  over.  Now  as  I  walked  along  the  Row,  the  boy 
of  that  morning's  encounter  was  going  into  the  entry 
of  the  house  in  which  Fowkes  and  Vizards  have  their 
offices.  I  had  just  time  to  recognise  him  when  the 
double  knock  announced  his  errand.  I  stopped  im- 
mediately; he  delivered  in  a  telegram  and  came  out. 
I  was  on  the  step.  Whether  he  knew  me  or  not  he 
did  not  look  his  knowledge.  His  eyes  went  through 
me,  his  smiling  mouth  did  not  smile  at  me.  My 
heart  beat,  I  didn't  know  why;  but  I  laughed  and 
nodded.  He  went  his  leisurely  way  and  I  watched 
him,  this  time,  almost  out  of  sight.  But  while  I 
stood  so,  watching,  old  Fowkes  came  bursting  out  of 
his  office,  tears  streaming  down  his  face,  the  tele- 
gram in  his  hand.  "Where  is  he?  Where  is  he?" 
This  was  addressed  to  me.  I  pointed  the  way.  Old 
Fowkes  saw  his  benefactor  (as  I  suppose  him  to  have 


QUIDNUNC  97 

been)  and  began  to  run.  The  lad  turned  round,  saw 
him  coming,  waved  him  away,  and  then — disap- 
peared. Again  he  had  done  it;  but  old  Fowkes,  in 
no  way  surprised,  stood  rooted  to  the  pavement  with 
his  hands  extended  so  far  toward  the  mystery  that 
I  could  see  two  or  three  inches  of  bony  old  wrist 
beyond  his  shirt-cuffs.  After  a  while  he  turned  and 
slowly  came  back  to  his  chambers.  He  seemed  now 
not  to  see  me;  or  he  was  careless  whether  I  saw  him 
or  not.  As  he  entered  the  doorway  he  held  up  the 
telegram,  bent  his  head  and  laid  a  kiss  upon  the 
pink  paper. 

But  that  is  by  no  means  all.  Now  I  come  to  the 
Richborough  story,  which  all  London  that  is  as  old 
as  I  am  remembers.  That  part  of  London,  it  may 
be,  will  not  read  this  book;  or  if  it  does,  will  not 
object  to  the  recall  of  a  case  which  absorbed  it  in 
1886-87.  I  am  not  going  to  be  indiscreet.  The 
lady  married,  and  the  lady  left  England.  Moreover, 
naturally,  I  give  no  names;  but  if  I  did  I  don't  see 
that  there  is  anything  to  be  ashamed  of  in  what  she 
was  pleased  to  do  with  her  hand  and  person.  It  was 
startling  to  us  of  those  days,  it  might  be  startling  in 
these;  what  was  more  than  startling  was  the  manner 
in  which  the  thing  was  done.  That  is  known  to  very 
few  persons  indeed. 

I  had  seen  enough  upon  that  April  day,  whose 


98  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

events  form  my  prelude,  to  give  me  remembrance  of 
the  handsome  telegraph  boy.  The  next  time  I  saw 
him,  which  was  near  midnight  in  July — the  place 
Hyde  Park — I  knew  him  at  once. 

I  had  been  sharing  in  Prince's  Gate,  with  a  dull 
company,  an  interminable  dinner,  one  of  those  at 
which  you  eat  twice  as  much  as  you  intend,  or  desire, 
because  there  is  really  nothing  else  to  do.  On  one 
side  of  me  I  had  had  a  dowager  whom  I  entirely  failed 
to  interest,  on  the  other,  a  young  person  who  only 
cared  to  talk  with  her  left-hand  neighbour.  There 
was  a  reception  afterward  to  which  I  had  to  stop, 
so  that  I  could  not  make  my  escape  till  eleven  or 
more.  The  night  was  very  hot  and  it  had  been  rain- 
ing; but  such  air  as  there  was  was  balm  after  the 
still  furnace  of  the  rooms.  I  decided  immediately 
to  walk  to  my  lodging  in  Camden  Town,  entered  by 
Prince's  Gate,  crossed  the  Serpentine  Bridge  and 
took  a  bee-line  for  the  Marble  Arch.  It  was  cloudy, 
but  not  at  all  dark.  I  could  see  all  the  ankle-high 
railings  which  beset  the  unwary  passenger  and  may  at 
any  moment  break  his  legs  and  his  nose,  imperil  his 
dignity  and  ruin  his  hat.  Dimly  ahead  of  me,  upon 
a  broad  stretch  of  grass,  I  presently  became  aware 
of  a  concourse.  There  was  no  sound  to  go  by,  and 
the  light  afforded  me  no  definite  forms;  the  lumi- 
nous haze  was  blurred;  but  certainly  people  were 


QUIDNUNC  99 

there,  a  multitude  of  people.  I  was  surprised,  but 
not  alarmed.  Save  for  an  occasional  wastrel  of 
civilisation,  incapable  of  degradation  and  concerned 
only  for  sleep,  the  park  is  wont  to  be  a  desert  at  that 
hour;  but  the  hum  of  the  traffic,  the  flashing  cab 
lamps,  never  quite  out  of  sight,  prevent  fear.  Far 
from  being  afraid  I  was  highly  interested,  and 
hastening  my  steps  was  soon  on  the  outskirts  of  a 
throng. 

A  throng  it  certainly  was,  a  large  body  of  persons, 
male  and  female,  scattered  yet  held  together  by  a 
common  interest,  loitering  and  expectant,  strangely 
silent,  not  concerned  with  each  other,  rarely  in 

P  couples,  with  all  their  faces  turned  one  way — namely, 
to  the  south-east,  or  (if  you  want  precision)  precisely 
to  Hyde  Park  Corner.  I  have  remarked  upon  the 
silence:  that  was  really  surprising;  so  also  was  the 
order  observed,  and  what  you  may  call  decorum. 
There  was  no  ribaldry,  no  skylarking,  no  shrill  dis- 
cord of  laughter  without  mirth  in  it  to  break  the 
solemnity  of  the  gracious  night.  These  people  just 
stood  or  squatted  about;  if  any  talked  together  it 
was  in  secret  whispers.  It  is  true  that  they  were 
under  the  watch  of  a  tall  policeman;  yet  he  too,  I 
noticed,  watched  nobody,  but  looked  steadily  to  the 
south-east,  with  his  lantern  harmless  at  his  belt.  As 
my  eyes  grew  used  to  the  gloom  I  observed  that  all 


loo  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

ranks  composed  the  company.  I  made  out  the 
shell  jacket,  the  waist  and  elongated  limbs  of  a  life- 
guardsman,  the  open  bosom  of  an  able  seaman.  I 
happened  upon  a  young  gentleman  in  the  crush  hat 
and  Inverness  of  the  current  fashion;  I  made  cer- 
tain of  a  woman  of  the  pavement  and  of  ladies  of 
the  boudoir,  of  a  hospital  nurse,  of  a  Greenwich 
pensioner,  of  two  flower-girls  sitting  on  the  edge  of 
one  basket,  of  a  shoeblack  (I  think),  of  a  coster- 
monger,  and  a  nun.  Others  there  were,  and  more 
than  one  or  two  of  most  categories:  in  a  word, 
there  was  an  assembly. 

I  accosted  the  policeman,  who  heard  me  civilly 
but  without  committing  himself.  To  my  first  ques- 
tion, what  was  going  to  happen?  he  carefully  an- 
swered that  he  couldn't  say,  but  to  my  second,  with 
the  irrepressible  scorn  of  one  who  knows  for  one  who 
wants  to  know,  he  answered  more  frankly,  "Who  are 
they  waiting  for?  Why,  Quidnunc.  Mister  Quid- 
nunc. That's  who  it  is.  Him  they  call  Quidnunc. 
So  now  you  know."  In  fact,  I  did  not  know.  He 
had  told  me  nothing,  would  tell  me  no  more,  and 
while  I  stood  pondering  the  oracle  I  was  sensible  of 
some  common  movement  run  through  the  company 
with  a  thrill,  unite  them,  intensify  them,  draw  them 
together  to  be  one  people  with  one  faith,  one  hope, 
one  assurance.  And  then  the  nun,  who  stood  near 


QUIDNUNC  io'i 

me,  fell  to  her  knees,  crossed  herself  and  began  to 
pray;  and  not  far  off  her  a  slim  girl  in  black  turned 
aside  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  A  per- 
ceptible shiver  of  emotion,  a  fluttering  sigh  such  as 
steals  over  a  pine-wood  toward  dawn  ran  through 
all  ranks.  Far  to  the  south-east  a  speck  of  light 
now  showed,  which  grew  in  intensity  as  it  came 
swiftly  nearer,  and  seemed  presently  to  be  a  ball  of 
vivid  fire  surrounded  by  a  shroud  of  lit  vapour. 
Again,  as  by  a  common  consent,  the  crowd  parted, 
stood  ranked,  with  an  open  lane  between.  The  on- 
coming flare,  grown  intolerably  bright,  now  seemed 
to  fade  out  as  it  resolved  itself  into  a  human  figure. 
A  human  figure  at  the  entry  of  the  lane  of  people 
there  undoubtedly  was,  a  figure  with  so  much  light 
about  him,  raying  (I  thought)  from  him,  that  it  was 
easy  to  observe  his  form  and  features.  Out  of  the 
flame  and  radiant  mist  he  grew,  and  showed  himself 
to  me  in  the  trim  shape  and  semblance,  with  the 
small  head  and  alert  air  of  a  youth;  and  such  as  he 
was,  in  the  belted  tunic  and  peaked  cap  of  a  tele- 
graph messenger,  he  came  smoothly  down  the  lane 
formed  by  the  obsequious  throng,  and  stood  in  the 
midst  of  it  and  looked  keenly,  with  his  cold,  clear 
eyes  and  fixed  and  inscrutable  smile,  from  one  ex- 
pectant face  to  another.  There  was  no  mistaking 
him  whom  all  those  people  so  eagerly  awaited;  he 


102  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

was  my  former  wonder  of  Gray's  Inn,  the  saviour  of 
old  Mr.  Fowkes. 

But  all  my  former  wonder  paled  before  this  my 
latter.  For  he  stood  here  like  some  young  Eastern 
king  among  his  slaves,  one  hand  on  his  hip,  the  other 
at  his  chin,  his  face  expressionless,  his  eyes  fixed 
but  unblinking.  Meantime,  the  crowd,  which  had 
stretched  out  arms  to  him  as  he  came,  was  now 
seated  quietly  on  the  grass,  intently  waiting,  watch- 
ing for  a  sign.  They  sat,  all  those  people,  in  a  wide 
ring  about  him;  he  was  in  the  midst,  a  hand  to  his 
chin. 

Whether  sign  was  made  or  not,  I  saw  none;  but 
after  some  moments  of  pause  a  figure  rose  erect  out 
of  the  ring  and  hobbled  toward  the  boy.  I  made 
out  an  old  woman,  an  old  wreck  of  womanhood,  a 
scant-haired,  blue-lipped  ruin  of  what  had  once  been 
woman.  I  heard  her  snivel  and  sniff  and  wheeze 
her  "Lord  ha*  mercy"  as  she  went  by,  slippering 
forward  on  her  miserable  feet,  hugging  to  her  wasted 
sides  what  remnant  of  gown  she  had,  fawning  before 
the  boy,  within  the  sphere  of  light  that  came  from 
him.  If  he  loathed,  or  scorned,  or  pitied  her,  he 
showed  no  sign;  if  he  saw  her  at  all  his  fixed  eyes 
looked  beyond  her;  if  he  abhorred  her,  his  nostrils 
did  not  betray  him.  He  stood  like  marble  and  suf- 
fered what  followed.  It  was  strange. 


QUIDNUNC  103 

Enacting  what  seemed  to  be  a  proper  rite,  she  put 
her  shaking  left  hand  upon  his  right  shoulder,  her 
right  hand  under  his  chin,  as  if  to  cup  it;,  and  then, 
with  sniffs  and  wailings  interspersed,  came  her  peti- 
tion to  his  merciful  ears. 

What  she  precisely  asked  of  him,  muttering, 
wheezing,  whining,  snivelling,  as  she  did,  repeating 
herself — with  her  burthen  of  "O  dear,  O  dear,  O 
dear!" — I  don't  know.  Her  lost  girl,  her  fine  up- 
standing girl,  her  Nance,  her  only  one,  figured  in  it 
as  needing  mercy.  Her  " Oh,  sir,  I  ask  you  kindly! " 
and  "Oh,  sir,  for  this  once  ...  !"  made  me  sick: 
yet  he  bore  with  her  as  she  ran  on,  dribbling  tears 
and  gin  in  a  mingled  flood;  he  bore  with  her,  heard 
her  in  silence,  and  in  the  end,  by  a  look  which  I  was 
not  able  to  discover,  quieted  and  sent  her  shuffling 
back  to  her  place.  So  soon  as  she  was  down,  the 
life-guardsman  was  on  his  feet,  a  fine  figure  of  a  man. 
He  marched  unfalteringly  up,  stiffened,  saluted,  and 
then,  observing  the  ritual  of  hand  to  shoulder,  hand 
to  chin,  spoke  out  his  piece  like  the  honest  fellow  he 
was;  spoke  it  aloud  and  without  fear,  evenly  and 
plainly.  I  thought  that  he  had  got  it  by  heart,  as 
I  thought  also  of  another  person  I  was  to  hear  by- 
and-by.  He  wanted,  badly  it  seemed,  news  of  his 
sweetheart,  whom  he  was  careful  to  call  Miss  Dixon. 
She  had  last  been  heard  of  outside  the  Brixton  Bon 


104  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

March£,  where  she  had  been  seen  with  a  lady  friend, 
talking  to  "two  young  chaps"  in  Volunteer  uniform. 
They  went  up  the  Brixton  Road  toward  Acre  Lane, 
and  Miss  Dixon,  at  any  rate,  was  never  heard  of 
again.  It  was  wearing  him  out;  he  wasn't  the  man 
he  had  been,  and  had  no  zest  for  his  meals.  She 
had  never  .written;  his  letters  to  her  had  come  back 
through  the  "Dead  Office."  He  thought  he  should 
go  out  of  his  mind  sometimes;  was  afraid  to  shave, 
not  knowing  what  he  might  be  after  with  "them 
things."  If  anything  could  be  done  for  him  he 
should  be  thankful.  Miss  Dixon  was  very  well  con- 
nected, and  sang  in  a  choir.  Here  he  stopped,  saluted, 
turned  and  marched  away  into  the  night.  I  heard 
him  pass  a  word  or  two  to  the  policeman,  who  turned 
aside  and  blew  his  nose.  The  hospital  nurse,  who 
spoke  in  a  feverish  whisper,  then  a  young  woman 
from  the  Piccadilly  gas-lamps,  who  cried  and  rocked 
herself  about,  followed;  and  then,  to  my  extreme 
amazement,  two  ladies  with  cloaks  and  hoods  over 
evening  gowns — one  of  them  a  Mrs.  Stanhope,  who 
was  known  to  me.  The  taller  and  younger  lady, 
chaperoned  by  my  friend,  I  did  not  recognise.  Her 
face  was  hidden  by  her  hood. 

I  was  now  more  than  interested,  it  seemed  to  me 
that  I  was,  in  a  sense,  implicated.  At  any  rate  I 
felt  very  delicate  about  overhearing  what  was  to 


QUIDNUNC  105 

come.  It  is  one  thing  to  become  absorbed  in  a  ritual 
the  like  of  which,  in  mid-London,  you  can  never  have 
experienced  before,  but  quite  another  thing  to  listen 
to  the  secret  desires  of  a  friend  in  whose  house  you 
may  have  dined  within  the  month.  However — by 
whatever  casuistries  I  might  have  compassed  it — I 
did  remain.  Let  me  hope,  nay,  let  me  believe  of 
myself  that  if  the  postulant  had  proved  to  be  my 
friend,  Mrs.  Shrewton  Stanhope,  herself,  I  should 
either  have  stopped  my  ears  or  immediately  retired. 
But  Mrs.  Stanhope,  I  saw  at  once,  was  no  more 
than  dame  de  compagnie.  She  stood  in  mid-ring 
with  bent  head  and  hands  clasped  before  her  while 
the  graceful,  hooded  girl  approached  nearer  to  the 
mysterious  oracle  and  fulfilled  the  formal  rites  de- 
manded of  all  who  sought  his  help.  Her  ringed  left 
hand  was  laid  upon  his  right  shoulder,  her  fair  right 
hand  upheld  his  chin.  When  she  began  to  speak, 
which  she  did  immediately  and  without  a  tremor, 
again  I  had  the  sensation  of  hearing  one  who  had 
words  by  heart.  This  was  her  burden,  more  or  less. 
"I  am  very  unhappy  about  a  certain  person.  It  is 
Captain  Maxfield.  I  am  engaged  to  him,  and  want 
to  break  it  off.  I  must  do  that — I  must  indeed.  If 
I  dqn't  I  shall  do  a  more  dreadful  thing.  I  do  hope 

you  will  help  me.     Mrs. ,  my  friend,  was  sure 

that  you  would.    I  do  hope  so.    I  am  very  unhappy." 


io6  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

She  had  commanded  her  voice  until  the  very  end; 
but  as  she  pitied  herself  there  came  a  break  in  it.  I 
heard  her  catch  her  breath;  I  thought  she  would  fall, 
— and  so  did  Mrs.  Stanhope,  it  was  clear,  for  she 
went  hurriedly  forward  and  put  an  arm  round  her 
waist.  The  younger  lady  drooped  to  her  shoulder; 
Mrs.  Stanhope  inclined  her  head  to  the  person — not 
a  sign  from  him,  mind  you — and  gently  withdrew 
her  charge  from  the  ring.  The  pair  then  hurried 
across  the  park  in  the  direction  of  Knightsbridge,  and 
left  me,  I  may  admit,  consuming  in  the  fire  of  curi- 
osity and  excitement  which  they  had  lit. 

Petitions  succeeded,  of  various  interest,  but  they 
seemed  pale  and  ineffectual  to  me.  Before  all  or 
nearly  all  of  the  waiting  throng  had  been  heard  I  saw 
uneasiness  spread  about  it.  Face  turned  to  face, 
head  to  head;  subtle  but  unmistakable  movements 
indicated  unrest.  Then,  of  the  suddenest,  amid 
lifted  hands  and  sighed-forth  prayers  the  youthful 
object  of  so  much  entreaty,  receiver  of  so  many  secret 
sorrows,  seemed  to  fade  and,  without  effort,  to  recede. 
I  know  not  how  else  to  describe  his  departure.  He 
backed  away,  as  it  were,  into  the  dark.  The  people 
were  on  their  feet  ere  this.  Sighs,  wailing,  appeals, 
sobs,  adjurations  broke  the  quietness  of  the  night. 
Some  ran  stumbling  after  him  with  extended  arms; 
most  of  them  stayed  where  they  were,  watching  him 


QUIDNUNC  107 

fade,  hoping  against  hope.  He  emptied  himself,  so 
to  speak,  of  light;  he  faded  backward,  diminishing 
himself  to  a  luminous  glow,  to  a  blur,  to  a  point  of 
light.  Thus  he  was  gone.  The  disappointed  crept 
silently  away,  each  into  silence,  solitude  and  the 
night,  and  I  found  myself  alone  with  the  policeman. 
Now,  what  in  the  name  of  God  was  all  this?  I 
asked  him,  and  must  have  it.  He  gave  me  some 
particulars,  admitting  at  the  outset  that  it  was  a 
"go."  "They  seem  to  think,"  he  said,  "that  they 
will  get  what  they  want  out  of  him — by  wire.  Let 
him  bring  them  a  wire  in  the  morning;  that's  the 
way  of  it.  Anything  in  life,  from  sudden  death  to 
a  penn'orth  of  bird-seed.  Death!  Ah,  Fve  heard 
'em  cringe  to  him  for  death,  times  and  again.  They 
crawl  for  it — they  must  have  it.  Can't  do  it  their- 
selves,  d'ye  see?  No,  no.  Let  him  do  it — somehow. 
Once  a  week,  during  the  season — his  season,  I  should 
say,  because  he  ain't  here  always,  by  no  means — • 
they  gets  about  like  this;  and  how  they  know  where 
to  spot  him  is  more  than  I  can  tell  you.  If  I  knew 
it,  I  would — but  I  don't.  Nobody  knows  that — and 
yet  they  know  it.  Sometimes  he's  to  be  found  here 
two  weeks  running;  then  it'll  be  the  Regent's  Park, 
or  the  Knoll  in  the  Green  Park.  He's  had  'em  all 
the  way  to  Hampstead  before  now,  and  Primrose 
Hill's  a  likely  place,  they  tell  me.  Telegrams:  that's 


io8  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

what  he  gives  'em — if  he's  got  the  mind.  But  they 
don't  get  all  they  want,  not  by  no  means.  And  some 
of  'em  gets  more  than  they  want,  by  a  lot."  He 
thought,  then  chuckled  at  a  rather  grim  instance. 

"Why,  there  was  old  Jack  Withers,  'blue-nosed 
Jack'  they  calls  him,  who  works  a  Hammersmith 
'bus!  Did  you  ever  hear  of  that?  That  was  a  good 
one,  if  you  like.  Now  you  listen.  This  Jack  was 
coming  up  the  B  romp  ton  Road  on  his  'bus — and  I 
was  on  duty  by  the  Boltons  and  see  him  coming. 
There  was  that  young  feller  there  too — him  we've 
just  had  here — standing  quiet  by  a  pillar-box,  read- 
ing a  letter.  One  foot  he  had  in  the  roadway,  and 
his  back  to  the  'bus.  Up  comes  old  Jack,  pushing 
his  horses,  and  sees  the  boy.  Gives  a  great  howl  like 
a  tom-cat.  'Hi!  you  young  frog-spawn,'  he  says, 
'out  of  my  road,'  and  startled  the  lad.  I  see  him 
look  up  at  Jack  very  steady,  and  keep  his  eye  on 
him.  I  thought  to  myself,  'There's  something  to 
pay  on  delivery,  my  boy,  for  this  here.'  Jack  owned 
up  to  it  afterwards  that  he  felt  queer,  but  he  forgot 
about  it.  Now,  if  you'll  believe  me,  sir,  the  very 
next  morning  Jack  was  at  London  Bridge  after  his 
second  journey,  when  up  comes  this  boy,  sauntering 
into  the  yard.  Comes  up  to  Jack  and  nods.  'Name 
of  Withers?'  he  says.  'That's  me,'  says  old  Jack. 
'Thought  so,'  he  says.  'Telegram  for  you/  Jack 


QUIDNUNC  109 

takes  it,  opens  it,  goes  all  white.  'Good  God!'  he 
says;  'good  God  Almighty!  My  wife's  dead!' 
She'd  been  knocked  down  by  a  Pickford  that  morn- 
ing, sure  as  a  gun.  What  do  you  think  of  that  for 
a  start? 

"He  served  Spotty  Smith  the  fried-eel  man  just 
the  very  same,  and  lots  more  I  could  tell  you  about. 
They  call  him  Quidnunc — Mister  Quidnunc,  too,  and 
don't  you  forget  it.  There's  that  about  him  I — 
well,  sir,  if  it  was  to  come  to  it  that  I  had  to  lay  a 
hand  on  him  for  something  out  of  Queer  Street  I 
shouldn't  know  how  to  do  it.  Now  I'm  telling  you 
a  fact.  I  shouldn't — know — how — to — do  it." 

He  was  not,  obviously,  telling  me  a  fact,  but  cer- 
tainly he  was  much  in  earnest.  I  commented  upon 
the  diversity  of  the  company,  and  so  learned  the 
name  of  my  friend  Mrs.  Stanhope's  friend.  He 
clacked  his  tongue.  "Bless  you,"  he  said,  "I've 
seen  better  than  to-night,  though  we  did  have  a 
slap-up  ladyship  and  all.  That  was  Lady  Emily 
Rich,  that  young  thing  was,  Earl  of  Richborough's 
family — Grosvenor  Place.  But  we  had  a  Duchess 
or  something  here  one  night — ah,  and  a  Bishop  an- 
other, a  Lord  Bishop.  You'd  never  believe  the  tales 
we  hear.  He's  known  to  every  night-constable  from 
Woolwich  to  Putney  Bridge — -and  the  company  he 
gets  about  him  you'd  never  believe.  High  and 


no  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

low,  and  all  huddled  together  like  so  many  babes 
in  a  nursing-home.  No  distinction.  You  saw  old 
Mother  Misery  get  first  look-in  to-night?  My  lady 
waited  her  turn,  like  a  good  girl!"  His  voice  sank 
to  a  whisper.  "They  tell  me  he's  the  only  living 
soul — if  he  is  a  living  soul — that's  ever  been  inside 
the  Stock  Exchange  and  come  out  tidy.  He  goes 
and  comes  in  as  he  likes — quite  the  Little  Stranger. 
They  all  know  him  in  Throgmorton  Street.  No,  no. 
There's  more  in  this  than  meets  the  eye,  sir.  He's 
not  like  you  and  me.  But  it's  no  business  of  mine. 
He  don't  go  down  in  my  pocket-book,  I  can  tell  you. 
I  keep  out  of  his  way — and  with  reason.  He  never 
did  no  harm  to  me,  nor  shan't  if  I  can  help  it.  Quid- 
nunc! Mister  Quidnunc!  He  might  be  a  herald 
angel  for  all  I  know." 

I  went  my  way  home  and  to  bed,  but  was  not 
done  with  Quidnunc. 

The  next  day,  which  was  the  first  day  of  the  Eton 
and  Harrow  Match,  I  read  a  short  paragraph  in  the 
Echo,  headed  "Painful  Scene  at  Lord's,"  to  the  effect 
that  a  lady  lunching  on  Lord  Richborough's  drag 
had  fainted  upon  the  receipt  of  a  telegram,  and 
would  have  fallen  had  she  not  been  caught  by  the 
messenger — "a  strongly  built  youth,"  it  said,  "who 
thus  saved  what  might  have  been  a  serious  accident." 
That  was  all,  but  it  gave  me  food  for  thought,  and 


QUIDNUNC  in 

a  suspicion  which  Saturday  confirmed  in  a  sufficiently 
startling  way.  On  that  Saturday  I  was  at  luncheon 
in  the  First  Avenue  Hotel  in  Holborn,  when  a  man 
came  in — Tendring  by  name — whom  I  knew  quite 
well.  We  exchanged  greetings  and  sat  at  our  lunch- 
eon, talking  desultorily.  A  clerk  from  his  office 
brought  in  a  telegram  for  Tendring.  He  opened 
it  and  seemed  thunder-struck.  "Good  Lord!"  I 
heard  him  say.  "Good  Lord,  here's  trouble."  I 
murmured  sympathetically,  and  then  he  turned  to 
me,  quite  beyond  the  range  where  reticence  avails. 
"Look  here,"  he  said,  "this  is  a  shocking  business. 
A  man  I  know  wires  to  me — from  Bow  Street.  He's 
been  taken  for  forgery — that's  the  charge — and 
wants  me  to  bail  him  out."  He  got  up  as  we  fin- 
ished and  went  to  write  his  reply:  I  turned  immedi- 
ately to  the  clerk.  "Is  the  boy  waiting?"  I  asked. 
He  was.  I  said  "Excuse  me,  Tendring,"  and  ran 
out  of  the  restaurant  to  the  street  door.  There  in 
the  street,  as  I  had  suspected,  stood  my  inscrutable, 
steady-eyed,  smiling  Oracle  of  the  night.  I  stood, 
meeting  his  look  as  best  I  might.  He  showed  no 
recognition  of  me  whatsoever.  Then,  as  I  stood 
there,  Tendring  came  out.  "Call  me  a  cab,"  he 
told  the  hall-porter;  and  to  Quidnunc  he  said, 
"There's  no  answer.  I'm  going  at  once."  Quid- 
nunc went  away. 


112  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

Now  Tendring's  friend,  I  learned  by  the  evening 
paper,  was  one  Captain  Maxfield  of  the  Royal  Engi- 
neers. He  was  committed  for  trial,  bail  refused.  I 
may  add  that  he  got  seven  years. 

So  much  for  Captain  Maxfield!  But  much  more 
for  Lady  Emily  Rich,  of  whose  fate  I  have  now  to 
tell.  My  friend,  Mrs.  Shrewton  Stanhope,  was  very 
reserved,  would  tell  me  nothing,  even  when  I  roundly 
said  that  I  had  fancied  to  see  her  in  the  park  one 
evening.  She  had  the  hardihood  to  meet  my  eyes 
with  a  blank  denial,  and  very  plainly  there  was 
nothing  to  be  learned  from  her.  A  visit,  many 
visits  to  the  London  parks  at  the  hour  between 
eleven  and  midnight  taught  me  no  more;  but  being 
by  now  thoroughly  interested  in  the  affairs  of  Lady 
Emily  Rich  I  made  it  my  business  to  get  a  glimpse 
of  her.  She  was,  it  seemed,  the  only  unmarried 
daughter  of  the  large  Richborough  family  which  had 
done  so  well  in  that  sex,  and  so  badly  in  the  other 
that  there  was  not  only  no  son,  but  no  male  heir  to 
the  title.  That,  indeed,  expired  with  Lady  Emily's 
father.  I  don't  really  know  how  many  daughters 
there  were,  or  were  not.  Most  of  them  married 
prosperously.  One  of  them  became  a  Roman  prin- 
cess; one  married  a  Mr.  Walker,  an  American  stock- 
jobber (with  a  couple  of  millions  of  money) ;  another 
was  Baroness  de  Grass — De  Grass  being  a  Jew;  one 


QUIDNUNC  113 

became  an  Anglican  nun  to  the  disgust  (I  was  told) 
of  her  family.  Lady  Emily,  whose  engagement  to 
the  wretched  Maxfield  was  so  dramatically  termi- 
nated was,  I  think,  the  youngest  of  them.  I  saw  her 
one  night  toward  the  end  of  the  season  at  the  Opera. 
Tendring,  who  was  with  me,  pointed  her  out  in  a 
box.  She  was  dressed  in  black  and  looked  very 
scared.  She  hardly  moved  once  throughout  the 
evening,  and  when  people  spoke  to  her  seemed  not 
to  hear.  She  was  certainly  a  very  pretty  girl.  It 
may  have  been  fancy,  or  it  may  not,  but  I  could  have 
sworn  to  the  corner  of  a  pinky-brown  envelope  stick- 
ing out  of  the  bosom  of  her  dress.  I  don't  think  I 
was  mistaken;  I  had  a  good  look  through  the  glasses. 
She  touched  it  shortly  afterward  and  poked  it  down. 
At  the  end  I  saw  her  come  out.  A  tall  girl,  rather 
thin;  very  pretty  certainly,  but  far  from  well.  Her 
eyes  haunted  me;  they  had  what  is  called  a  hag- 
ridden look.  And  yet,  thought  I,  she  had  got  her 
desire  of  Quidnunc.  Ah,  but  had  she?  Hear  the 
end  of  the  tale. 

I  say  that  I  saw  her  come  out,  that's  not  quite 
true.  I  saw  her  come  down  the  staircase  and  stand 
with  her  party  in  the  crowded  lobby.  She  stood  in 
it,  but  not  of  it;  for  her  vague  and  shadowed  eyes 
sought  otherwhere  than  in  those  of  the  neat-haired 
young  man  who  was  chattering  in  front  of  her.  She 


114  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

scanned,  rather,  the  throng  of  people  anxiously  and 
guardedly  at  once,  as  if  she  was  looking  for  somebody, 
and  must  not  be  seen  to  look.  As  time  wore  on  and 
the  carriage  delayed,  her  nervousness  increased.  She 
seemed  to  get  paler,  she  shut  her  eyes  once  or  twice 
as  though  to  relieve  the  strain  which  watching  and 
waiting  put  upon  them,  and  then,  quite  suddenly,  I 
saw  that  she  had  found  what  she  expected;  I  saw 
that  her  empty  eyes  were  now  filled,  that  they  held 
something  without  which  they  had  faded  out.  In  a 
word,  I  saw  her  look  fixedly,  fiercely  and  certainly 
at  something  beyond  the  lobby.  Following  the 
direction  she  gave  me,  I  looked  also.  There,  assur- 
edly, in  the  portico,  square,  smiling  and  assured  of 
his  will,  I  saw  Quidnunc  stand,  and  his  light  eyes 
upon  hers.  For  quite  a  space  of  time,  such  as  that 
in  which  you  might  count  fifteen  deliberately,  those 
two  looked  at  each  other.  Messages,  I  am  sure, 
sped  to  and  fro  between  them.  His  seemed  to  say, 
"Come,  I  have  answered  you.  Now  do  you  an- 
swer me."  Hers  cried  her  hurt,  "Ah,  but  what 
can  I  do?  "  His,  with  their  cool  mastery  of  time  and 
occasion,  "You  must  do  as  I  bid  you.  There's  no 
other  way."  Hers  pleaded,  "Give  me  time,"  and 
his  told  her  sternly,  "I  am  master  of  time — since  I 
made  it."  The  throng  of  waiting  people  began  to 
surge  toward  the  door;  out  there  in  the  night  link- 


QUIDNUNC  115 

boys  yelled  great  names.  I  heard  "Lord  Richbor- 
ough's  carriage,"  and  saw  Lady  Emily  clap  her  hand 
to  her  side.  I  saw  her  reach  the  portico  and  stand 
there  hastily  covering  her  head  with  a  black  scarf;  I 
saw  her  sway  alone  there.  I  saw  her  party  go  down 
the  steps.  The  next  moment  Quidnunc  flashed  to 
her  side.  He  said  nothing,  he  did  not  touch  her. 
He  simply  looked  at  her — intently,  smiling,  self- 
possessed,  a  master.  Her  face  was  averted;  I  could 
see  her  tremble;  she  bowed  her  head.  Another  car- 
riage was  announced — the  Richborough  coach  then 
was  gone.  I  saw  Quidnunc  now  put  his  hand  upon 
her  arm;  she  turned  him  her  face,  a  faint  and  tender 
smile,  very  beautiful  and  touching,  met  his  own. 
He  drew  her  with  him  out  of  the  press  and  into  the 
burning  dark.  London  never  saw  her  again. 

I  don't  attempt  to  explain  what  is  to  me  inexpli- 
cable. Was  my  policeman  right  when  he  called 
Quidnunc  a  herald  angel?  Is  there  any  substance 
behind  the  surmise  that  the  ancient  gods  still  sway 
the  souls  and  bodies  of  men?  Was  Quidnunc,  that 
swift,  remorseless,  smiling  messenger,  that  god  of 
the  winged  feet?  The  Argeiphont?  Who  can  an- 
swer these  things?  All  I  have  to  tell  you  by  way  of 
an  epilogue  is  this. 

A  curate  of  my  acquaintance,  a  curate  of  St. 
Peter's,  Eaton  Square,  some  few  years  after  these 


n6  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

events,  took  his  holiday  in  Greece.  He  went  out 
as  one  of  a  tourist  party,  but  having  more  time  at  his 
disposal  than  was  contemplated  by  the  contracting 
agency,  he  stayed  on,  chartered  a  dragoman  and 
wandered  far  and  wide.  On  his  return  he  told  me 
that  he  had  seen  Lady  Emily  Rich  at  Pherae  in  Ar- 
cadia, and  that  he  had  spoken  to  her.  He  had  seen 
her  sitting  on  the  door-step  of  a  one-storied  white 
house,  spinning  flax.  She  wore  the  costume  of  the 
peasants,  which  he  told  me  is  very  picturesque.  Two 
or  three  half-naked  children  tumbled  about  her. 
They  were  beautiful  as  angels,  he  said,  with  curly 
golden  hair  and  extremely  light  eyes.  He  noticed 
that  particularly,  and  recurred  to  it  more  than  once. 
Now  Lady  Emily  was  a  dark  girl,  with  eyes  so  deeply 
blue  as  to  be  almost  black. 

My  friend  spoke  to  her,  he  said.  He  had  seen 
that  she  recognised  him;  in  fact,  she  bowed  to  him. 
He  felt  that  he  could  not  disregard  her.  Mere  com- 
monplaces were  exchanged.  She  told  him  that  her 
husband  was  away  on  a  journey.  She  fancied  that 
he  had  been  in  England;  but  she  explained  half- 
laughingly  that  she  knew  very  little  about  his  affairs, 
and  was  quite  content  to  leave  them  to  him.  She 
had  her  children  to  look  after.  My  friend  was  sur- 
prised that  she  asked  no  question  of  England  or 
family  matters;  but,  in  the  circumstances,  he  added, 


QUIDNUNC  117 

he  hardly  liked  to  refer  to  them.  She  served  him 
with  bread  and  wine  before  he  left  her.  All  he  could 
say  was  that  she  appeared  to  be  perfectly  happy. 

It  is  odd,  and  perhaps  it  is  more  than  odd,  that 
there  was  a  famous  temple  of  Hermes  in  Pherae  in 
former  times.  Pindar,  I  believe,  acclaimed  it  in  one 
of  his  Epinikean  odes;  but  I  have  not  been  able  to 
verify  the  reference. 


THE  SECRET  COMMONWEALTH 

THE  interest  of  my  matter  has  caused  me  to  lose 
sight  of  myself  and  to  fail  in  my  account  of  the  flight 
of  time  over  my  head.  That  is,  however,  compara- 
ble with  the  facts,  which  were  that  my  attention  was 
then  become  solely  objective.  I  had  other  things 
to  think  of  than  the  development  of  my  own  nature. 
I  had  other  things  to  think  of,  indeed,  than  those 
which  surround  us  all,  and  press  upon  us  until  we 
become  permanently  printed  by  their  contact.  Soli- 
tary as  I  had  ever  been  in  mind,  I  now  became  liter- 
ally so  by  choice.  I  became  wholly  absorbed  in  that 
circumambient  world  of  being  which  was  graciously 
opening  itself  to  my  perceptions — how  I  knew  not. 
I  was  in  a  state  of  momentary  expectation  of  appari- 
tions; as  I  went  about  my  ostensible  business  I  had 
my  ears  quick  and  my  eyes  wide  for  signs  and  tokens 
that  I  was  surrounded  by  a  seething  and  whirling 
invisible  population  of  beings,  like  ourselves,  but 
glorified:  yet  unlike  ourselves  in  this,  that  what 
seemed  entirely  right,  because  natural,  to  them  would 
have  been  in  ourselves  horrible.  The  ruthlessness, 

118 


THE  SECRET  COMMONWEALTH  119 

for  instance,  of  Quidnunc  as  he  pursued  and  obtained 
his  desire,  had  Quidnunc  been  a  human  creature, 
would  have  been  revolting;  the  shamelessness  of  the 
fairy  wife  of  Ventris  had  she  been  capable  of  shame, 
how  shameful  had  that  been!  But  I  knew  that  these 
creatures  were  not  human;  I  knew  that  they  were 
not  under  our  law;  and  so  I  explained  everything  to 
myself.  But  to  myself  only.  It  is  not  enough  to 
explain  a  circumstance  by  negatives.  If  Quidnunc 
and  Mrs.  Ventris  were  not  under  our  law,  neither 
are  the  sun,  moon  and  stars,  neither  are  the  apes  and 
peacocks.  But  all  these  are  under  some  law,  since, 
law  is  the  essence  of  the  Kosmos.  Under  what  law 
then  were  Mrs.  Ventris  and  Quidnunc?  I  burned  to 
know  that.  For  many  years  of  my  life  that  knowl- 
edge was  my  steady  desire;  but  I  had  no  means  at 
hand  of  satisfying  it.  Reading?  Well,  I  did  read 
in  a  fashion.  I  read,  for  example,  Grimm's  Teutonic 
Mythology,  a  stout  and  exceedingly  dull  work  in  three 
volumes  of  a  most  unsatisfying  kind.  I  read  other 
books  of  the  same  sort,  chiefly  German,  dealing  in 
etymology,  which  I  readily  allow  is  a  science  of 
great  value  within  its  proper  sphere.  But  to  Grimm 
and  his  colleagues  etymology  seemed  to  me  to  be  the 
contents  of  the  casket  rather  than  the  key;  for 
Grimm  and  his  colleagues  started  with  a  prejudice, 
that  Gods,  fairies  and  the  rest  have  never  existed 


120  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

and  don't  exist.  To  them  the  interest  of  the  in- 
quiry is  not  what  is  the  nature,  what  are  the  laws  of 
such  beings,  but  what  is  the  nature  of  the  primitive 
people  who  imagined  the  existence  of  such  beings? 
I  very  soon  found  out  that  Grimm  and  his  colleagues 
had  nothing  to  tell  me. 

Then  there  was  another  class  of  book;  that  which 
dealt  in  demonology  and  witchcraft,  exemplified  by 
a  famous  work  called  Satan's  Invisible  World  Discov- 
ered. Writers  of  these  things  may  or  may  not  have 
believed  in  witches  and  fairies  (which  they  classed 
together);  but  in  any  event  they  believed  them  to 
be  wicked,  the  abomination  of  uncleanness.  That 
made  them  false  witnesses.  My  judgment  revolted 
against  such  ridiculous  assumptions.  Here  was  a 
case,  you  see,  where  writers  treated  their  subject  too 
seriously,  having  the  pulpit-cushion  ever  below  their 
hand,  and  the  fear  of  the  Ordinary  before  their  eyes.1 
Grimm  and  his  friends,  on  the  other  hand,  took  it 
too  lightly,  seeing  in  it  matter  for  a  treatise  on  lan- 
guage. I  got  no  good  out  of  either  school,  and  as 
time  goes  on  I  don't  see  a  prospect  of  any  adequate 
handling  of  the  theme.  I  should  like  to  think  that 


1The  Reverend  Robert  Kirk,  author  of  the  Secret  Commonwealth, 
was  a  clergyman  and  a  believer  in  the  beings  of  whom  his  book  pro- 
fessed to  treat.  He  found  them  a  place  in  his  Pantheon;  but  he  knew 
very  little  about  them.  I  shall  have  to  speak  of  him  again  I  expect. 
He  is  himself  an  object-lesson,  though  his  teachings  are  naught. 


THE  SECRET  COMMONWEALTH          121 

I  myself  was  to  be  the  man  to  expound  the  fairy- 
kind  candidly  and  methodically — candidly,  that  is, 
without  going  to  literature  for  my  data,  and  with 
the  notion  definitely  out  of  mind  that  the  fairy  God- 
mother ever  existed.  But  I  shall  never  be  that  man, 
for  though  I  am  candid  to  the  point  of  weakness,  I 
am  not  to  flatter  myself  that  I  have  method.  But  to 
whomsoever  he  may  be  that  undertakes  the  subject 
I  can  promise  that  the  documents  await  their  his- 
torian, and  I  will  furnish  him  with  a  title  which  will 
indicate  at  a  glance  both  the  spirit  of  his  attack  and 
the  nature  of  his  treatise. 

"The  Natural  History  of  the  Preternatural"  it 
should  be.  I  make  him  a  present  of  that — the  only 
possible  line  for  a  sincere  student.  God  go  with 
him  whosoever  he  be,  for  he  will  have  rare  qualities 
and  rare  need  of  them.  He  must  be  cheerful  with- 
out assumption,  respectful  without  tragic  airs,  as 
respectable  as  he  please  in  the  eyes  of  his  own  law, 
so  that  he  finds  respect  in  his  heart  also  for  the  laws 
of  the  realm  in  which  he  is  privileged  to  trade.  Let 
him  not  stand,  as  the  priest  in  the  Orthodox  Church, 
a  looming  hierophant.  Let  him  avoid  any  rhetorical 
pose,  any  hint  of  the  grand  manner.  Above  all,  let 
him  not  wear  the  smirk  of  the  conjuror  when  he 
prepares  with  flourishes  to  whip  the  handkerchief 
away  from  his  guinea-pig.  Here  is  one  who  con- 


122  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

descends  to  reader  and  subject  alike.  He  would  do 
harm  all  round:  moreover  he  would  be  a  quack,  for 
he  is  just  as  much  of  a  quack  who  makes  little  of 
much  as  he  who  makes  much  of  little.  No!  Let  his 
attitude  be  that  of  the  contadino  in  some  vast  church 
in  Italy,  who  walking  into  the  cool  dark  gazes  round- 
eyed  at  the  twinkling  candles  ahead  of  him  in  the 
vague,  and  that  he  may  recover  himself  a  little 
leans  against  a  pillar  for  a  while,  his  hat  against  his 
heart  and  his  lips  muttering  an  Ave.  Reassured  by 
his  prayer,  or  the  peace  of  the  great  place,  he  pres- 
ently espies  the  sacristan  about  to  uncover  a  picture 
not  often  shown.  Here  is  an  occasion!  The  tour- 
ists are  gathered,  intent  upon  their  Baedekers;  he 
tiptoes  up  behind  them  and  kneels  by  another  pillar 
— for  the  pillars  of  a  church  are  his  friendly  rocks, 
touching  which  he  can  face  the  unknown.  The  cur- 
tain is  brailed  up,  and  the  blue  and  crimson,  the 
mournful  eyes,  the  wimple,  the  pointed  chin,  the 
long  idle  fingers  are  revealed  upon  their  golden  back- 
ground. While  the  girls  flock  about  papa  with  his 
book,  and  mamma  wonders  where  we  shall  have 
luncheon,  Annibale,  assured  familiar  of  Heaven,  be- 
atified at  no  expense  to  himself,  settles  down  to  a 
quiet  talk  with  the  Mother  of  God.  His  attitude 
is  perfect,  and  so  is  hers.  The  firmament  is  not  to 
be  shaken,  but  Annibale  is  not  a  farceur,  nor  his 


THE  SECRET  COMMONWEALTH  123 

Blessed  One  absurd.  Mysteries  are  all  about  us. 
Some  are  for  the  eschatologist  and  some  for  the 
shepherd;  some  for  Patmos  and  some  for  the  podere. 
Let  our  historian  remember,  in  fact,  that  the  natures 
into  which  he  invites  us  to  pry  are  those  of  the  little 
divinities  of  earth  and  he  can't  go  very  far  wrong. 
Nor  can  we. 

That,  I  am  bold  to  confess,  is  my  own  attitude 
toward  a  lovely  order  of  creation.  Perhaps  I  may 
go  on  to  give  him  certain  hints  of  treatment.  Nearly 
all  of  them,  I  think,  tend  to  the  same  point — the  dis- 
carding of  literature.  Literature,  being  a  man's  art, 
is  at  its  best  and  also  at  its  worst,  in  its  dealing 
with  women.  No  man,  perhaps,  is  capable  of  writ- 
ing of  women  as  they  really  are,  though  every  man 
thinks  he  is.  A  curious  consequence  to  the  history 
of  fairies  has  been  that  literature  has  recognised  no 
males  in  that  community,  and  that  of  the  females  it 
has  described  it  has  selected  only  those  who  are  en- 
amoured of  men  or  disinclined  to  them.  The  fact, 
of  course,  is  that  the  fairy  world  is  peopled  very 
much  as  our  own,  and  that,  with  great  respect  to 
Shakespeare,  an  Ariel,  a  Puck,  a  Titania,  a  Peas- 
blossom  are  abnormal.  It  is  as  rare  to  find  a  fairy 
capable  of  discerning  man  as  the  converse  is  rare. 
I  have  known  a  person  intensely  aware  of  the  Spirits 
that  reside,  for  instance,  in  flowers,  in  the  wind,  in 


124  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

rivers  and  hills,  none  the  less  bereft  of  any  inter- 
course whatever  with  these  interesting  beings  by  the 
simple  fact  that  they  themselves  were  perfectly  un- 
conscious of  him.  It  is  greatly  to  be  doubted  whether 
Shakespeare  ever  saw  a  fairy,  though  his  age  believed 
in  fairies,  but  almost  certain  that  Shelley  must  have 
seen  many,  whose  age  did  not  believe.  If  our  author 
is  to  have  a  poetical  guide  at  all  it  had  better  be 
Shelley. 

Literature  will  tell  him  that  fairies  are  benevolent 
or  mischievous,  and  tradition,  borrowing  from  litera- 
ture, will  confirm  it.  The  proposition  is  ridiculous. 
It  would  be  as  wise  to  say  that  a  gnat  is  mischievous 
when  it  stings  you,  or  a  bee  benevolent  because 
he  cannot  prevent  you  stealing  his  honey.  There 
would  be  less  talk  of  benevolent  bees  if  the  gloves 
were  off.  That  is  the  pathetic  fallacy  again;  and 
that  is  man  all  over.  Will  nothing,  I  wonder,  con- 
vince him  that  he  is  not  the  centre  of  the  Universe? 
If  Darwin,  Newton,  Galileo,  Copernicus  and  Sir 
Norman  Lockyer  have  failed,  is  it  my  turn  to  try? 
Modesty  forbids.  Besides,  I  am  prejudiced.  I 
think  man,  in  the  conduct  of  his  business,  inferior 
to  any  vegetable.'  I  am  a  tainted  source.  But  such 
talk  is  idle,  and  so  is  that  which  cries  havoc  upon 
fairy  morality.  Heaven  knows  that  it  differs  from 
our  own;  but  Heaven  also  knows  that  our  own  dif- 


THE  SECRET  COMMONWEALTH  125 

fers  inter  nos;  and  that  to  discuss  the  customs  and 
habits  of  the  Japanese  in  British  parlours  is  a  vain 
thing.  The  Forsaken  Merman  is  a  beautiful  poem, 
but  not  a  safe  guide  to  those  who  would  relate  the 
ways  of  the  spirits  of  the  sea.  But  all  this  is  lead- 
ing me  too  far  from  my  present  affair,  which  is  to 
relate  how  the  knowledge  of  these  things — of  these 
beings  and  of  their  laws — came  upon  me,  and  how 
their  nature  influenced  mine.  I  have  said  enough, 
I  think,  to  establish  the  necessity  of  a  good  book 
upon  the  subject,  and  I  take  leave  to  flatter  myself 
that  these  pages  of  my  own  will  be  indispensable 
Prolegomena  to  any  such  work,  or  to  any  research 
tending  to  its  compilation. 

Lin  the  absence  of  books,  in  the  situation  in  which 
I  found  myself  of  reticence,  I  could  do  nothing  but 
brood  upon  the  things  I  had  seen.  Insensibly  my 
imagination  (latent  while  I  had  been  occupied  with 
observation)  began  to  work.  I  did  not  write,  but  I 
pictured,  and  my  waking  dreams  became  so  vivid 
that  I  was  in  a  fair  way  to  treat  them  as  the  only 
reality,  and  might  have  discarded  the  workaday 
world  altogether.  Luckily  for  me,  my  disposition 
was  tractable  and  law-abiding.  I  fulfilled  by  habit 
the  duties  of  the  day;  I  toiled  at  my  dreary  work, 
ate  and  slept,  wrote  to  my  parents,  visited  them, 
having  got  those  tasks  as  it  were  by  heart,  but  I 


126  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

went  through  the  rites  like  an  automaton;  my  mind 
was  elsewhere,  intensely  dogging  the  heels  of  that 
winged  steed,  my  fancy,  panting  in  its  tracks,  and 
perfectly  content  so  only  that  it  did  not  come  up 
too  late  to  witness  the  glories  which  its  bold  flights 
discovered.  I  Thanks  to  it — all  thanks  to  it — I  did 
not  become  a  nympholept.  I  did  not  haunt  Parlia- 
ment Hill  o'  nights.  I  did  not  spy  upon  the  darkling 
motions  of  Mrs.  Ventris.  Desire,  appetite,  sex  were 
not  involved  at  all  in  this  affair;  nor  yet  was  love. 
I  was  very  prone  to  love,  but  I  did  not  love  Mrs. 
Ventris.  In  whatsoever  fairy  being  I  had  seen  there 
had  been  nothing  which  held  physical  attraction  for 
me.  There  could  be  no  allure  when  there  was  no 
lure.  So  far  as  I  could  tell,  not  one  of  these  creatures 
— except  Quidnunc,  and  possibly  the  Dryad,  the  sun- 
dyed  nymph  I  had  seen  long  ago  in  K Park — 

had  been  aware  of  my  presence.  I  guessed,  though 
I  did  not  know  (as  I  do  now)  that  manifestation  is 
not  always  mutual,  but  that  a  man  may  see  a  fairy 
without  being  seen,  and  conversely,  a  fairy  may  be 
fully  aware  of  mankind  or  of  some  man  or  men  with- 
out any  suspicion  of  theirs.  Moreover,  though  I  saw 
them  all  extraordinarily  beautiful,  I  had  never  yet 
seen  one  supremely  desirable.  The  instinct  to  pos- 
sess, which  is  an  essential  part  of  the  love-passion  of 
every  man — had  never  stirred  in  me  in  the  presence 


THE  SECRET  COMMONWEALTH  127 

of  these  creatures.  If  it  had  I  should  have  yielded 
to  it,  I  doubt  not,  since  there  was  no  moral  law  to 
hold  me  back.  But  it  never  had,  so  far,  and  I  was 
safe  from  the  wasting  misery  of  seeking  that  which 
could  not,  from  its  very  nature  (and  mine)  be  sought. 
There  was  really  nothing  I  could  do,  therefore, 
but  wait,  and  that  is  what  I  did.  I  waited  intensely, 
very  much  as  a  terrier  waits  at  the  hole  of  the  bolting 
rabbit.  By  the  merest  accident  I  got  a  clew  to  a 
very  interesting  case  which  added  enormously  to  my 
knowledge.  It  was  a  clear  case  of  fairy  child-theft, 
the  clearest  I  ever  met  with.  I  shall  devote  a  chap- 

•  ter  to  it,  having  been  at  the  pains  to  verify  it  in  all 
particulars.    I  did  not  succeed  in  meeting  the  hero, 
or  victim  of  it,  because,  though  the  events  related 
took  place  in  1887,  they  were  not  recorded  until  1892, 
when  the  record  came  into  my  hands.    By  that  time 
the  two  persons  concerned  had  left  the  country  and 

•  were  settled  in  Florida.     I  did  see  Mr.  Walsh,  the 
Nonconformist  Minister  who  communicated  the  tale 
to  his  local  society,  but  he  was  both  a  dull  and  a 
cautious  man,  and  had  very  little  to  tell  me.    He  had 
himself  seen  nothing,  he  only  had  Beckwith's  word 
to  go  upon  and  did  not  feel  certain  that  the  whole 
affair  was  not  an  hallucination  on  the  young  man's 
part.    That  the  child  had  disappeared  was  certain, 
that  both  parents  were  equally  distressed  is  certain. 


128  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

Not  a  shred  of  suspicion  attached  to  the  unhappy 
Beckwith.  But  Mr.  Walsh  told  me  that  he  felt  the 
loss  so  keenly  and  blamed  himself  so  severely,  though 
unreasonably,  to  my  thinking,  that  it  would  have 
been  impossible  for  him  to  remain  in  England.  He 
said  that  the  full  statement  communicated  to  the 
Field  Club  was  considered  by  the  young  man  in  the 
light  of  a  confession  of  his  share  in  the  tragedy.  It 
would,  he  said,  have  been  exorbitant  to  expect  more 
of  him.  And  I  quite  agree  with  him;  and  now  had 
better  give  the  story  as  I  found  it. 


BECKWITH'S  CASE 

THE  facts  were  as  follows.  Mr.  Stephen  Mortimer 
Beckwith  was  a  young  man  living  at  Wishford  in  the 
Amesbury  district  of  Wiltshire.  He  was  a  clerk  in 
the  Wilts  and  Dorset  Bank  at  Salisbury,  was  married 
and  had  one  child.  His  age  at  the  tune  of  the  experi- 
ence here  related  was  twenty-eight.  His  health  was 
excellent. 

On  the  3oth  November,  1887,  at  about  ten  o'clock 
at  night,  he  was  returning  home  from  Amesbury 
where  he  had  been  spending  the  evening  at  a  friend's 
house.  The  weather  was  mild,  with  a  rain-bearing 
wind  blowing  in  squalls  from  the  south-west.  It 
was  three-quarter  moon  that  night,  and  although 
the  sky  was  frequently  overcast  it  was  at  no  time 
dark.  Mr.  Beckwith,  who  was  riding  a  bicycle  and 
accompanied  by  his  fox-terrier  Strap,  states  that  he 
had  no  difficulty  in  seeing  and  avoiding  the  stones 
cast  down  at  intervals  by  the  road-menders;  that 
flocks  of  sheep  in  the  hollows  were  very  visible,  and 
that,  passing  Wilsford  House,  he  saw  a  barn  owl 

quite  plainly  and  remarked  its  heavy,  uneven  flight. 

129 


130  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

A  mile  beyond  Wilsford  House,  Strap,  the  dog, 
broke  through  the  quickset  hedge  upon  his  right-hand 
side  and  ran  yelping  up  the  down,  which  rises  sharply 
just  there.  Mr.  Beckwith,  who  imagined  that  he 
was  after  a  hare,  whistled  him  in,  presently  calling 
him  sharply,  "Strap,  Strap,  come  out  of  it."  The 
dog  took  no  notice,  but  ran  directly  to  a  clump  of 
gorse  and  bramble  half-way  up  the  down,  and  stood 
there  in  the  attitude  of  a  pointer,  with  uplifted  paw, 
watching  the  gorse  intently,  and  whining.  Mr. 
Beckwith  was  by  this  tune  dismounted,  observing 
the  dog.  He  watched  him  for  some  minutes  from 
the  road.  The  moon  was  bright,  the  sky  at  the 
moment  free  from  cloud. 

He  himself  could  see  nothing  in  the  gorse,  though 
the  dog  was  undoubtedly  in  a  high  state  of  excite- 
ment. It  made  frequent  rushes  forward,  but  stopped 
short  of  the  object  that  it  saw  and  trembled.  It  did 
not  bark  outright  but  rather  whimpered — "a  curi- 
ous, shuddering,  crying  noise,"  says  Mr.  Beckwith. 
Interested  by  the  animal's  persistent  and  singular 
behaviour,  he  now  sought  a  gap  in  the  hedge,  went 
through  on  to  the  down,  and  approached  the  clumped 
bushes.  Strap  was  so  much  occupied  that  he  barely 
noticed  his  master 's  coming;  it  seemed  as  if  he 
dared  not  take  his  eyes  for  one  second  from  what 
he  saw  in  there. 


BECKWITH'S  CASE  131 

Beckwith,  standing  behind  the  dog,  looked  into 
the  gorse.  From  the  distance  at  which  he  still 
stood  he  could  see  nothing  at  all.  His  belief  then 
was  that  there  was  either  a  tramp  in  a  drunken  sleep, 
possibly  two  tramps,  or  a  hare  caught  in  a  wire,  or 
possibly  even  a  fox.  Having  no  stick  with  him  he 
did  not  care,  at  first,  to  go  any  nearer,  and  contented 
himself  with  urging  on  his  terrier.  This  was  not 
very  courageous  of  him,  as  he  admits,  and  was  quite 
unsuccessful.  No  verbal  excitations  would  draw 
Strap  nearer  to  the  furze-bush.  Finally  the  dog 
threw  up  his  head,  showed  his  master  the  white  arcs 
of  his  eyes  and  fairly  howled  at  the  moon.  At  this 
dismal  sound  Mr.  Beckwith  owned  himself  alarmed. 
It  was,  as  he  describes  it — though  he  is  an  English- 
man— "uncanny."  The  time,  he  owns,  the  aspect 
of  the  night,  loneliness  of  the  spot  (mid-way  up  the 
steep  slope  of  a  chalk  down),  the  mysterious  shroud 
of  darkness  upon  shadowed  and  distant  objects  and 
flood  of  white  light  upon  the  foreground — all  these 
circumstances  worked  upon  his  imagination. 

He  was  indeed  for  retreat;  but  here  Strap  was  of 
a  different  mind.  Nothing  would  excite  him  to  ad- 
vance, but  nothing  either  could  induce  him  to  retire. 
Whatever  he  saw  in  the  furze-bush  Strap  must  con- 
tinue to  observe.  In  the  face  of  this  Beckwith 
summoned  up  his  courage,  took  it  in  both  hands  and 


1^2  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

went  much  nearer  to  the  furze-bushes,  much  nearer, 
that  is,  than  Strap  the  terrier  could  bring  himself  to 
go.  Then,  he  tells  us,  he  did  see  a  pair  of  bright  eyes 
far  in  the  thicket,  which  seemed  to  be  fixed  upon  his, 
and  by  degrees  also  a  pale  and  troubled  face.  Here, 
then,  was  neither  fox  nor  drunken  tramp,  but  some 
human  creature,  man,  woman,  or  child,  fully  aware 
of  him  and  of  the  dog. 

Beckwith,  who  now  had  surer  command  of  his 
feelings,  spoke  aloud  asking,  "What  are  you  doing 
there?  What's  the  matter?"  He  had  no  reply. 
He  went  one  pace  nearer,  being  still  on  his  guard, 
and  spoke  again.  "I  won't  hurt  you,"  he  said. 
"Tell  me  what  the  matter  is."  The  eyes  remained 
unwinkingly  fixed  upon  his  own.  No  movement  of 
the  features  could  be  discerned.  The  face,  as  he 
could  now  make  it  out,  was  very  small — "about  as 
big  as  a  big  wax  dolPs,"  he  says,  "of  a  longish  oval, 
very  pale."  He  adds,  "I  could  see  its  neck  now,  no 
thicker  than  my  wrist;  and  where  its  clothes  began. 
I  couldn't  see  any  arms,  for  a  good  reason.  I  found 
out  afterward  that  they  had  been  bound  behind  its 
back.  I  should  have  said  immediately,  *  That's  a 
girl  in  there,'  if  it  had  not  been  for  one  or  two  plain 
considerations.  It  had  not  the  size  of  what  we  call 
a  girl,  nor  the  face  of  what  we  mean  by  a  child.  It 
was,  in  fact,  neither  fish,  flesh,  nor  fowl.  Strap  had 


BECKWITH'S  CASE  133 

known  that  from  the  beginning,  and  now  I  was  of 
Strap's  opinion  myself." 

Advancing  with  care,  a  step  at  a  time,  Beckwith 
presently  found  himself  within  touching  distance  of 
the  creature.  He  was  now  standing  with  furze  half- 
way up  his  calves,  right  above  it,  stooping  to  look 
closely  at  it;  and  as  he  stooped  and  moved,  now  this 
way,  now  that,  to  get  a  clearer  view,  so  the  crouching 
thing's  eyes  gazed  up  to  meet  his,  and  followed  them 
about,  as  if  safety  lay  only  in  that  never-shifting, 
fixed  regard.  He  had  noticed,  and  states  in  his  nar- 
rative, that  Strap  had  seemed  quite  unable,  in  the 
same  way,  to  take  his  eyes  off  the  creature  for  a 
single  second. 

He  could  now  see  that,  of  whatever  nature  it 
might  be,  it  was,  in  form  and  features,  most  exactly 
a  young  woman.  The  features,  for  instance,  were 
regular  and  fine.  He  remarks  in  particular  upon 
the  chin.  All  about  its  face,  narrowing  the  oval  of 
it,  fell  dark  glossy  curtains  of  hair,  very  straight  and 
glistening  with  wet.  Its  garment  was  cut  in  a  plain 
circle  round  the  neck,  and  short  off  at  the  shoulders, 
leaving  the  arms  entirely  bare.  This  garment,  shift, 
smock  or  gown,  as  he  indifferently  calls  it,  appeared 
thin,  and  was  found  afterward  to  be  of  a  grey  colour, 
soft  and  clinging  to  the  shape.  It  was  made  loose, 
however,  and  gathered  in  at  the  waist.  He  could 


134  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

not  see  the  creature's  legs,  as  they  were  tucked  under 
her.  Her  arms,  it  has  been  related,  were  behind  her 
back.  The  only  other  things  to  be  remarked  upon 
were  the  strange  stillness  of  one  who  was  plainly 
suffering,  and  might  well  be  alarmed,  and  appear- 
ance of  expectancy,  a  dumb  appeal;  what  he  himself 
calls  rather  well  "an  ignorant  sort  of  impatience,  like 
that  of  a  sick  animal." 

"Come,"  Beckwith  now  said,  "let  me  help  you 
up.  You  will  get  cold  if  you  sit  here.  Give  me 
your  hand,  will  you? ' '  She  neither  spoke  nor  moved ; 
simply  continued  to  search  his  eyes.  Strap,  mean- 
time, was  still  trembling  and  whining.  But  now, 
when  he  stooped  yet  lower  to  take  her  forcibly  by 
the  arms,  she  shrank  back  a  little  way  and  turned 
her  head,  and  he  saw  to  his  horror  that  she  had  a 
great  open  wound  in  the  side  of  her  neck — from  which, 
however,  no  blood  was  issuing.  Yet  it  was  clearly 
a  fresh  wound,  recently  made. 

He  was  greatly  shocked.  "Good  God,"  he  said, 
"there's  been  foul  play  here,"  and  whipped  out  his 
handkerchief.  Kneeling,  he  wound  it  several  times 
round  her  slender  throat  and  knotted  it  as  tightly  as 
he  could;  then,  without  more  ado,  he  took  her  up  in 
his  arms,  under  the  knees  and  round  the  middle,  and 
carried  her  down  the  slope  to  the  road.  He  describes 
her  as  of  no  weight  at  all.  He  says  it  was  "exactly 


BECKWITH'S  CASE  135 

like  carrying  an  armful  of  feathers  about."  "I  took 
her  down  the  hill  and  through  the  hedge  at  the 
bottom  as  if  she  had  been  a  pillow." 

Here  it  was  that  he  discovered  that  her  wrists 
were  bound  together  behind  her  back  with  a  kind 
of  plait  of  thongs  so  intricate  that  he  was  quite  un- 
able to  release  them.  He  felt  his  pockets  for  his 
knife,  but  could  not  find  it,  and  then  recollected  sud- 
denly that  he  should  have  a  new  one  with  him,  the 
third  prize  in  a  whist  tournament  in  which  he  had 
taken  part  that  evening.  He  found  it  wrapped  in 
paper  in  his  overcoat  pocket,  with  it  cut  the  thongs 
and  set  the  little  creature  free.  She  immediately  re- 
sponded— the  first  sign  of  animation  which  she  had 
displayed — by  throwing  both  her  arms  about  his 
body  and  clinging  to  him  in  an  ecstasy.  Holding 
him  so  that,  as  he  says,  he  felt  the  shuddering  go 
all  through  her,  she  suddenly  lowered  her  head  and 
touched  his  wrist  with  her  cheek.  He  says  that  in- 
stead of  being  cold  to  the  touch,  "like  a  fish,"  as  she 
had  seemed  to  be  when  he  first  took  her  out  of  the 
furze,  she  was  now  "as  warm  as  a  toast,  like  a 
child." 

So  far  he  had  put  her  down  for  "a  foreigner,"  con- 
venient term  for  defining  something  which  you  do 
not  quite  understand.  She  had  none  of  his  language, 
evidently;  she  was  undersized,  some  three  feet  six 


136  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

inches  by  the  look  of  her,1  and  yet  perfectly  propor- 
tioned. She  was  most  curiously  dressed  in  a  frock 
cut  to  the  knee,  and  actually  in  nothing  else  at  all. 
It  left  her  bare-legged  and  bare-armed,  and  was  made, 
as  he  puts  it  himself,  of  stuff  like  cobweb:  "those 
dusty,  drooping  kind  which  you  put  on  your  finger 
to  stop  bleeding."  He  could  not  recognise  the  web, 
but  was  sure  that  it  was  neither  linen  nor  cotton. 
It  seemed  to  stick  to  her  body  wherever  it  touched  a 
prominent  part:  "you  could  see  very  well,  to  say 
nothing  of  feeling,  that  she  was  well  made  and  well 
nourished."  She  ought,  as  he  judged,  to  be  a  child 
of  five  years  old,  "and  a  feather-weight  at  that"; 
but  he  felt  certain  that  she  must  be  "much  more 
like  sixteen."  It  was  that,  I  gather,  which  made 
him  suspect  her  of  being  something  outside  experi- 
ence. So  far,  then,  it  was  safe  to  call  her  a  foreigner: 
but  he  was  not  yet  at  the  end  of  his  discoveries. 

Heavy  footsteps,  coming  from  the  direction  of 
Wishford,  in  due  time  proved  to  be  those  of  Police 
Constable  Gulliver,  a  neighbour  of  Beckwith's  and 
guardian  of  the  peace  in  his  own  village.  He  lifted 
his  lantern  to  flash  it  into  the  traveller's  eyes,  and 
dropped  it  again  with  a  pleasant  "good  evening." 


*Her  exact  measurements  are  stated  to  have  been  as  follows:  height 
from  crown  to  sole,  3  feet  5  inches.  Round  waist,  15  inches;  round 
bust,  21  inches;  round  wrist,  sK  inches;  round  neck,  iYz  inches. 


BECKWITH'S  CASE  137 

He  added  that  it  was  inclined  to  be  showery,  which 
was  more  than  true,  as  it  was  at  the  moment  raining 
hard.  With  that,  it  seems,  he  would  have  passed  on. 

But  Beckwith,  whether  smitten  by  self-conscious- 
ness of  having  been  seen  with  a  young  woman  in  his 
arms  at  a  suspicious  hour  of  the  night  by  the  village 
policeman,  or  bursting  perhaps  with  the  importance 
of  his  affair,  detained  Gulliver.  "Just  look  at  this," 
he  said  boldly.  "Here's  a  pretty  thing  to  have  found 
on  a  lonely  road.  Foul  play  somewhere,  I'm  afraid," 
he  then  exhibited  his  burden  to  the  lantern  light. 

To  his  extreme  surprise,  however,  the  constable, 
after  exploring  the  beam  of  light  and  all  that  it  con- 
tained for  some  time  in  silence,  reached  out  his  hand 
for  the  knife  which  Beckwith  still  held  open.  He 
looked  at  it  on  both  sides,  examined  the  handle  and 
gave  it  back.  "Foul  play,  Mr.  Beckwith?"  he  said 
laughing.  "Bless  you,  they  use  bigger  tools  than 
that.  That's  just  a  toy,  the  like  of  that.  Cut  your 
hand  with  it,  though,  already,  I  see."  He  must  have 
noticed  the  handkerchief,  for  as  he  spoke  the  light 
from  his  lantern  shone  full  upon  the  face  and  neck 
of  the  child,  or  creature,  in  the  young  man's  arms, 
so  clearly  that,  looking  down  at  it,  Beckwith  him- 
self could  see  the  clear  grey  of  its  intensely  watchful 
eyes,  and  the  very  pupils  of  them,  diminished  to 
specks  of  black.  It  was  now,  therefore,  plain  to 


138  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

him  that  what  he  held  was  a  foreigner  indeed,  since 
the  parish  constable  was  unable  to  see  it.  Strap 
had  smelt  it,  then  seen  it,  and  he,  Beckwith,  had 
seen  it;  but  it  was  invisible  to  Gulliver.  "I  felt 
now,"  he  says  in  his  narrative,  "that  something  was 
wrong.  I  did  not  like  the  idea  of  taking  it  into  the 
house;  but  I  intended  to  make  one  more  trial  before 
I  made  up  my  mind  about  that.  I  said  good  night 
to  Gulliver,  put  her  on  my  bicycle  and  pushed  her 
home.  But  first  of  all  I  took  the  handkerchief  from 
her  neck  and  put  it  in  my  pocket.  There  was  no 
blood  upon  it,  that  I  could  see." 

His  wife,  as  he  had  expected,  was  waiting  at  the 
gate  for  him.  She  exclaimed,  as  he  had  expected, 
upon  the  lateness  of  the  hour.  Beckwith  stood  for 
a  little  in  the  roadway  before  the  house,  explaining 
that  Strap  had  bolted  up  the  hill  and  had  had  to  be 
looked  for  and  fetched  back.  While  speaking  he 
noticed  that  Mrs.  Beckwith  was  as  insensible  to  the 
creature  on  the  bicycle  as  Gulliver  the  constable  had 
been.  Indeed,  she  went  much  further  to  prove  her- 
self so  than  he,  for  she  actually  put  her  hand  upon 
the  handle-bar  of  the  machine,  and  in  order  to  do 
that  drove  it  right  through  the  centre  of  the  girl 
crouching  there.  Beckwith  saw  that  done.  "I  de- 
clare solemnly  upon  my  honour,"  he  writes,  "that 
it  was  as  if  Mary  had  drilled  a  hole  clean  through 


BECKWITH'S  CASE  139 

the  middle  of  her  back.  Through  gown  and  skin 
and  bone  and  all  her  arm  went;  and  how  it  went  I 
don't  know.  To  me  it  seemed  that  her  hand  was  on 
the  handle-bar,  while  her  upper  arm,  to  the  elbow, 
was  in  between  the  girl's  shoulders.  There  was  a 
gap  from  the  elbow  downwards  where  Mary's  arm 
was  inside  the  body;  then  from  the  creature's  dia- 
phragm her  lower  arm,  wrist  and  hand  came  out. 
And  all  the  time  we  were  speaking  the  girl's  eyes 
were  on  my  face.  I  was  now  quite  determined 
that  I  wouldn't  have  her  in  the  house  for  a  mint  of 
money." 

He  put  her,  finally,  in  the  dog-kennel.  Strap,  as 
a  favourite,  lived  in  the  house;  but  he  kept  a  grey- 
hound in  the  garden,  in  a  kennel  surrounded  by  a 
sort  of  run  made  of  iron  poles  and  galvanised  wire. 
It  was  roofed  in  with  wire  also,  for  the  convenience 
of  stretching  a  tarpaulin  in  wet  weather.  Here  it 
was  that  he  bestowed  the  strange  being  rescued  from 
the  down. 

It  was  clever,  I  think,  of  Beckwith  to  infer  that 
what  Strap  had  shown  respect  for  would  be  respected 
by  the  greyhound,  and  certainly  bold  of  him  to  act 
upon  his  inference.  However,  events  proved  that 
he  had  been  perfectly  right.  Bran,  the  greyhound, 
was  interested,  highly  interested  in  his  guest.  The 
moment  he  saw  his  master  he  saw  what  he  was 


140  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

carrying.  "Quiet,  Bran,  quiet  there,"  was  a  very 
unnecessary  adjuration.  Bran  stretched  up  his  head 
and  sniffed,  but  went  no  further;  and  when  Beck- 
with  had  placed  his  burden  on  the  straw  inside  the 
kennel^  Bran  lay  down,  as  if  on  guard,  outside  the 
opening  and  put  his  muzzle  on  his  forepaws.  Again 
Beckwith  noticed  that  curious  appearance  of  the 
eyes  which  the  fox-terrier's  had  made  already. 
Bran's  eyes  were  turned  upward  to  show  the  nar- 
row arcs  of  white. 

Before  he  went  to  bed,  he  tells  us,  but  not  before 
Mrs.  Beckwith  had  gone  there,  he  took  out  a  bowl 
of  bread  and  milk  to  his  patient.  Bran  he  found  to 
be  still  stretched  out  before  the  entry;  the  girl  was 
nestled  down  in  the  straw,  as  if  asleep  or  prepared 
to  be  so,  with  her  face  upon  her  hand.  Upon  an 
after-thought  he  went  back  for  a  clean  pocket  hand- 
kerchief, warm  water  and  a  sponge.  With  these,  by 
the  light  of  a  candle,  he  washed  the  wound,  dipped 
the  rag  in  hazeline,  and  applied  it.  This  done,  he 
touched  the  creature's  head,  nodded  a  good  night 
and  retired.  "She  smiled  at  me  very  prettily,"  he 
says.  "That  was  the  first  time  she  did  it." 

There  was  no  blood  on  the  handkerchief  which  he 
had  removed. 

Early  in  the  morning  following  upon  the  adventure 
Beckwith  was  out  and  about.  He  wished  to  verify 


BECKWITH'S  CASE  141 

the  overnight  experiences  in  the  light  of  refreshed 
intelligence.  On  approaching  the  kennel  he  saw  at 
once  that  it  had  been  no  dream.  There,  in  fact,  was 
the  creature  of  his  discovery  playing  with  Bran  the 
greyhound,  circling  sedately  about  him,  weaving  her 
arms,  pointing  her  toes,  arching  her  graceful  neck, 
stooping  to  him,  as  if  inviting  him  to  sport,  darting 
away — "like  a  fairy/'  says  Beckwith,  "at  her  magic, 
dancing  in  a  ring."  Bran,  he  observed,  made  no 
effort  to  catch  her,  but  crouched  rather  than  sat,  as 
if  ready  to  spring.  He  followed  her  about  with  his 
eyes  as  far  as  he  could;  but  when  the  course  of  her 
dance  took  her  immediately  behind  him  he  did  not 
turn  his  head,  but  kept  his  eye  fixed  as  far  backward 
as  he  could,  against  the  moment  when  she  should 
come  again  into  the  scope  of  his  vision.  "It  seemed 
as  important  to  him  as  it  had  the  day  before  to 
Strap  to  keep  her  always  in  his  eye.  It  seemed — and 
always  seemed  so  long  as  I  could  study  them  to- 
gether— intensely  important."  Bran's  mouth  was 
stretched  to  "  a  sort  of  grin  " ;  occasionally  he  panted. 
When  Beckwith  entered  the  kennel  and  touched  the 
dog  (which  took  little  notice  of  him)  he  found  him 
trembling  with  excitement.  His  heart  was  beating 
at  a  great  rate.  He  also  drank  quantities  of  water. 
Beckwith,  whose  narrative,  hitherto  summarised, 
I  may  now  quote,  tells  us  that  the  creature  was  in- 


142  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

describably  graceful  and  light-footed.  ' l  You  couldn' t 
hear  the  fall  of  her  foot:  you  never  could.  Her 
dancing  and  circling  about  the  cage  seemed  to  be  the 
most  important  business  of  her  life;  she  was  always 
at  it,  especially  in  bright  weather.  I  shouldn't  have 
called  it  restlessness  so  much  as  busyness.  It  really 
seemed  to  mean  more  to  her  than  exercise  or  irrita- 
tion at  confinement.  It  was  evident  also  that  she 
was  happy  when  so  engaged.  She  used  to  sing.  She 
sang  also  when  she  was  sitting  still  with  Bran;  but 
not  with  such  exhilaration. 

"Her  eyes  were  bright — when  she  was  dancing 
about — with  mischief  and  devilry.  I  cannot  avoid 
that  word,  though  it  does  not  describe  what  I  really 
mean.  She  looked  wild  and  outlandish  and  full  of 
fun,  as  if  she  knew  that  she  was  teasing  the  dog,  and 
yet  couldn't  help  herself.  When  you  say  of  a  child 
that  he  looks  wicked,  you  don't  mean  it  literally;  it 
is  rather  a  compliment  than  not.  So  it  was  with  her 
and  her  wickedness.  She  did  look  wicked,  there's  no 
mistake — able  and  willing  to  do  wickedly;  but  I 
am  sure  she  never  meant  to  hurt  Bran.  They  were 
always  firm  friends,  though  the  dog  knew  very  well 
who  was  master. 

"When  you  looked  at  her  you  did  not  think  of  her 
height.  She  was  so  complete;  as  well  made  as  a 
statuette.  I  could  have  spanned  her  waist  with  my 


BECKWITH'S  CASE  143 

two  thumbs  and  middle  fingers,  and  her  neck  (very 
nearly)  with  one  hand.  She  was  pale  and  inclined 
to  be  dusky  in  complexion,  but  not  so  dark  as  a 
gipsy;  she  had  grey  eyes,  and  dark-brown  hair, 
which  she  could  sit  upon  if  she  chose.  Her  gown 
you  could  have  sworn  was  made  of  cobweb;  I  don't 
know  how  else  to  describe  it.  As  I  had  suspected, 
she  wore  nothing  else,  for  while  I  was  there  that  first 
morning,  so  soon  as  the  sun  came  up  over  the  hill 
she  slipped  it  off  her  and  stood  up  dressed  in  nothing 
at  all.  She  was  a  regular  little  Venus — that's  all  I 
can  say.  I  never  could  get  accustomed  to  that 
weakness  of  hers  for  slipping  off  her  frock,  though 
no  doubt  it  was  very  absurd.  She  had  no  sort  of 
shame  in  it,  so  why  on  earth  should  I? 

"The  food,  I  ought  to  mention,  had  disappeared: 
the  bowl  was  empty.  But  I  know  now  that  Bran 
must  have  had  it.  So  long  as  she  remained  in  the 
kennel  or  about  my  place  she  never  ate  anything, 
nor  drank  either.  If  she  had  I  must  have  known  it, 
as  I  used  to  clean  the  run  out  every  morning.  I  was 
always  particular  about  that.  I  used  to  say  that 
you  couldn't  keep  dogs  too  clean.  But  I  tried  her, 
unsuccessfully,  with  all  sorts  of  things:  flowers, 
honey,  dew — for  I  had  read  somewhere  that  fairies 
drink  dew  and  suck  honey  out  of  flowers.  She  used 
to  look  at  the  little  messes  I  made  for  her,  and  when 


144  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

she  knew  me  better  would  grimace  at  them,  and  look 
up  in  my  face  and  laugh  at  me. 

"I  have  said  that  she  used  to  sing  sometimes.  It 
was  like  nothing  that  I  can  describe.  Perhaps  the 
wind  in  the  telegraph  wire  comes  nearest  to  it,  and 
yet  that  is  an  absurd  comparison.  I  could  never 
catch  any  words;  indeed  I  did  not  succeed  in  learn- 
ing a  single  word  of  her  language.  I  doubt  very 
much  whether  they  have  what  we  call  a  language — 
I  mean  the  people  who  are  like  her,  her  own  people. 
They  communicate  with  each  other,  I  fancy,  as  she 
did  with  my  dogs,  inarticulately,  but  with  perfect 
communication  and  understanding  on  either  side. 
When  I  began  to  teach  her  English  I  noticed  that 
she  had  a  kind  of  pity  for  me,  a  kind  of  contempt 
perhaps  is  nearer  the  mark,  that  I  should  be  com- 
pelled to  express  myself  in  so  clumsy  a  way.  I  am 
no  philosopher,  but  I  imagine  that  our  need  of  put- 
ting one  word  after  another  may  be  due  to  our  habit 
of  thinking  in  sequence.  If  there  is  no  such  thing 
as  Time  in  the  other  world  it  should  not  be  necessary 
there  to  frame  speech  in  sentences  at  all.  I  am  sure 
that  Thumbeline  (which  was  my  name  for  her — I 
never  learned  her  real  name)  spoke  with  Bran  and 
Strap  in  flashes  which  revealed  her  whole  thought  at 
once.  So  also  they  answered  her,  there's  no  doubt. 
So  also  she  contrived  to  talk  with  my  little  girl,  who, 


BECKWITH'S  CASE  145 

although  she  was  four  years  old  and  a  great  chatter- 
box, never  attempted  to  say  a  single  word  of  her 
own  language  to  Thumbeline,  yet  communicated 
with  her  by  the  hour  together.  But  I  did  not  know 
anything  of  this  for  a  month  or  more,  though  it 
must  have  begun  almost  at  once. 

"I  blame  myself  for  it,  myself  only.  I  ought,  of 
course,  to  have  remembered  that  children  are  more 
likely  to  see  fames  than  grown-ups;  but  then — why 
did  Florrie  keep  it  all  secret?  Why  did  she  not  tell 
her  mother,  or  me,  that  she  had  seen  a  fairy  in  Bran's 
kennel?  The  child  was  as  open  as  the  day,  yet  she 
concealed  her  knowledge  from  both  of  us  without 
the  least  difficulty.  She  seemed  the  same  careless, 
laughing  child  she  had  always  been;  one  could  not 
have  supposed  her  to  have  a  care  in  the  world,  and 
yet,  for  nearly  six  months  she  must  have  been  full 
of  care,  having  daily  secret  intercourse  with  Thumbe- 
line and  keeping  her  eyes  open  all  the  time  lest  her 
mother  or  I  should  find  her  out.  Certainly  she  could 
have  taught  me  something  in  the  way  of  keeping 
secrets.  I  know  that  I  kept  mine  very  badly,  and 
blame  myself  more  than  enough  for  keeping  it  at  all. 
God  knows  what  we  might  have  been  spared  if,  on 
the  night  I  brought  her  home,  I  had  told  Mary  the 
whole  truth!  And  yet — how  could  I  have  convinced 
her  that  she  was  impaling  some  one  with  her  arm 


146  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

while  her  hand  rested  on  the  bar  of  the  bicycle?  Is 
not  that  an  absurdity  on  the  face  of  it?  Yes,  indeed; 
but  the  sequel  is  no  absurdity.  That's  the  terrible 
fact. 

"I  kept  Thumbeline  in  the  kennel  for  the  whole 
winter.  She  seemed  happy  enough  there  with  the 
dogs,  and,  of  course,  she  had  had  Florrie,  too,  though 
I  did  not  find  that  out  until  the  spring.  I  don't 
doubt,  now,  that  if  I  had  kept  her  in  there  altogether 
she  would  have  been  perfectly  contented. 

"The  first  time  I  saw  Florrie  with  her  I  was 
amazed.  It  was  a  Sunday  morning.  There  was  our 
four-year-old  child  standing  at  the  wire,  pressing 
herself  against  it,  and  Thumbeline  close  to  her. 
Their  faces  almost  touched;  their  fingers  were  inter- 
laced; I  am  certain  that  they  were  speaking  to  each 
other  in  their  own  fashion,  by  flashes,  without  words. 
I  watched  them  for  a  bit;  I  saw  Bran  come  and  sit 
up  on  his  haunches  and  join  in.  He  looked  from  one 
to  another,  and  all  about;  and  then  he  saw  me. 

"Now  that  is  how  I  know  that  they  were  all  three 
in  communication;  because,  the  very  next  moment, 
Florrie  turned  round  and  ran  to  me,  and  said  in  her 
pretty  baby-talk,  'Talking  to  Bran.  Florrie  talking 
to  Bran.'  If  this  was  wilful  deceit  it  was  most  ac- 
complished. It  could  not  have  been  better  done. 
'And  who  else  were  you  talking  to,  Florrie? '  I  said. 


BECKWITH'S  CASE  147 

She  fixed  her  round  blue  eyes  upon  me,  as  if  in  won- 
der, then  looked  away  and  said  shortly,  'No  one  else.' 
And  I  could  not  get  her  to  confess  or  admit  then  or  at 
any  time  afterward  that  she  had  any  cognisance  at 
all  of  the  fairy  in  Bran's  kennel,  although  their  com- 
munications were  daily,  and  often  lasted  for  hours 
at  a  time.  I  don't  know  that  it  makes  things  any 
better,  but  I  have  thought  sometimes  that  the  child 
believed  me  to  be  as  insensible  to  Thumbeline  as  her 
mother  was.  She  can  only  have  believed  it  at  first, 
of  course,  but  that  may  have  prompted  her  to  a 
concealment  which  she  did  not  afterwards  care  to 
confess  to. 

"Be  this  as  it  may,  Florrie,  in  fact,  behaved  with 
Thumbeline  exactly  as  the  two  dogs  did.  She  made 
no  attempt  to  catch  her  at  her  circlings  and  wheel- 
ings about  the  kennel,  nor  to  follow  her  wonderful 
dances,  nor  (in  her  presence)  to  imitate  them.  But 
she  was  (like  the  dogs)  aware  of  nobody  else  when 
under  the  spell  of  Thumbeline's  personality;  and 
when  she  had  got  to  know  her  she  seemed  to  care 
for  nobody  else  at  all.  I  ought,  no  doubt,  to  have 
foreseen  that  and  guarded  against  it. 

"Thumbeline  was  extremely  attractive.  I  never 
saw  such  eyes  as  hers,  such  mysterious  fascination. 
She  was  nearly  always  good-tempered,  nearly  always 
happy;  but  sometimes  she  had  fits  of  temper  and 


148  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

kept  herself  to  herself.  Nothing  then  would  get  her 
out  of  the  kennel,  where  she  would  lie  curled  up  like 
an  animal  with  her  knees  to  her  chin  and  one  arm 
thrown  over  her  face.  Bran  was  always  wretched  at 
these  times,  and  did  all  he  knew  to  coax  her  out. 
He  ceased  to  care  for  me  or  my  wife  after  she  came 
to  us,  and  instead  of  being  wild  at  the  prospect  of 
his  Saturday  and  Sunday  runs,  it  was  hard  to  get 
him  along.  I  had  to  take  him  on  a  lead  until  we 
had  turned  to  go  home;  then  he  would  set  off  by 
himself,  in  spite  of  hallooing  and  scolding,  at  a  long 
steady  gallop  and  one  would  find  him  waiting 
crouched  at  the  gate  of  his  run,  and  Thumbeline  on 
the  ground  inside  it,  with  her  legs  crossed  like  a 
tailor,  mocking  and  teasing  him  with  her  wonderful 
shining  eyes.  Only  once  or  twice  did  I  see  her 
worse  than  sick  or  sorry;  then  she  was  transported 
with  rage  and  another  person  altogether.  She  never 
touched  me — and  why  or  how  I  had  offended  her  I 
have  no  notion1 — but  she  buzzed  and  hovered  about 
me  like  an  angry  bee.  She  appeared  to  have  wings, 
which  hummed  in  their  furious  movement;  she  was 
red  in  the  face,  her  eyes  burned;  she  grinned  at  me 
and  ground  her  little  teeth  together.  A  curious 


1  "I  have  sometimes  thought,"  he  adds  in  a  note,  "that  it  may  have 
been  jealousy.  My  wife  had  been  with  me  in  the  garden  and  had  stuck 
a  daffodil  in  my  coat." 


BECKWITH'S  CASE  149 

shrill  noise  came  from  her,  like  the  screaming  of  a 
gnat  or  hoverfly;  but  no  words,  never  any  words. 
Bran  showed  me  his  teeth  too,  and  would  not  look 
at  me.  It  was  very  odd. 

"When  I  looked  in,  on  my  return  home,  she  was 
as  merry  as  usual,  and  as  affectionate.  I  think  she 
had  no  memory. 

"  I  am  trying  to  give  all  the  particulars  I  was  able 
to  gather  from  observation.  In  some  things  she 
was  difficult,  in  others  very  easy  to  teach.  For  in- 
stance, I  got  her  to  learn  in  no  time  that  she  ought 
to  wear  her  clothes,  such  as  they  were,  when  I  was 
with  her.  She  certainly  preferred  to  go  without 
them,  especially  in  the  sunshine;  but  by  leaving  her 
the  moment  she  slipped  her  frock  off  I  soon  made 
her  understand  that  if  she  wanted  me  she  must 
behave  herself  according  to  my  notions  of  behaviour. 
She  got  that  fixed  in  her  little  head,  but  even  so  she 
used  to  do  her  best  to  hoodwink  me.  She  would 
slip  out  one  shoulder  when  she  thought  I  wasn't  look- 
ing, and  before  I  knew  where  I  was  half  of  her  would 
be  gleaming  in  the  sun  like  satin.  Directly  I  noticed 
it  I  used  to  frown,  and  then  she  would  pretend  to  be 
ashamed  of  herself,  hang  her  head,  and  wriggle  her 
frock  up  to  its  place  again.  However,  I  never  could 
teach  her  to  keep  her  skirts  about  her  knees.  She  was 
as  innocent  as  a  baby  about  that  sort  of  thing. 


150  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

"I  taught  her  some  English  words,  and  a  sentence 
or  two.  That  was  toward  the  end  of  her  confine- 
ment to  the  kennel,  about  March.  I  used  to  touch 
parts  of  her,  or  of  myself,  or  Bran,  and  peg  away  at 
the  names  of  them.  Mouth,  eyes,  ears,  hands,  chest, 
tail,  back,  front:  she  learned  all  those  and  more. 
Eat,  drink,  laugh,  cry,  love,  kiss,  those  also.  As  for 
kissing  (apart  from  the  word)  she  proved  hp.rsp.1f  to 
be  an  expert^  She  kissed  me,  Florrie,  Bran,  Strap 
indifferently,  one  as  soon  as  another,  and  any  rather 
than  none,  and  all  four  for  choice. 

"I  learned  some  things  myself,  more  than  a  thing 
or  two.  I  don't  mind  owning  that  one  thing  was  to 
value  my  wife's  steady  and  tried  affection  far  above 
the  wild  love  of  this  unbalanced,  unearthly  little 
creature,  who  seemed  to  be  like  nothing  so  much  as 
a  woman  with  the  conscience  left  out.  The  con- 
science, we  believe,  is  the  still  small  voice  of  the 
Deity  crying  to  us  in  the  dark  recesses  of  the  body; 
pointing  out  the  path  of  duty;  teaching  respect  for 
the  opinion  of  the  world,  for  tradition,  decency  and 
order.  It  is  thanks  to  conscience  that  a  man  is  true 
and  a  woman  modest.  Not  that  Thumbeline  could 
be  called  immodest,  unless  a  baby  can  be  so  described, 
or  an  animal.  But  could  I  be  called  'true'?  I 
greatly  fear  that  I  could  not — in  fact,  I  know  it  too 
well.  I  meant  no  harm;  I  was  greatly  interested; 


BECKWITH'S  CASE  151 

and  there  was  always  before  me  the  real  difficulty  of 
making  Mary  understand  that  something  was  in  the 
kennel  which  she  couldn't  see.  It  would  have  led 
to  great  complications,  even  if  I  had  persuaded  her 
of  the  fact.  No  doubt  she  would  have  insisted  on 
my  getting  rid  of  Thumbeline — but  how  on  earth 
could  I  have  done  that  if  Thumbeline  had  not  chosen 
to  go?  But  for  all  that  I  know  very  well  that  I 
ought  to  have  told  her,  cost  what  it  might.  If  I 
had  done  it  I  should  have  spared  myself  lifelong 
regret,  and  should  only  have  gone  without  a  few 
weeks  of  extraordinary  interest  which  I  now  see 
clearly  could  not  have  been  good  for  me,  as  not  being 
founded  upon  any  revealed  Christian  principle,  and 
most  certainly  were  not  worth  the  price  I  had  to 
pay  for  them. 

"I  learned  one  more  curious  fact  which  I  must 
not  forget.  Nothing  would  induce  Thumbeline  to 
touch  or  pass  over  anything  made  of  zinc.1  I  don't 
know  the  reason  of  it;  but  gardeners  will  tell  you 
that  the  way  to  keep  a  plant  from  slugs  is  to  put  a 
zinc  collar  round  it.  It  is  due  to  that  I  was  able  to 
keep  her  in  Bran's  run  without  difficulty.  To  have 
got  out  she  would  have  had  to  pass  zinc.  The  wire 
was  all  galvanised. 

1  This  is  a  curious  thing,  unsupported  by  any  other  evidence  known 
to  me.  I  asked  Despoina  about  it,  but  she  would  not,  or  she  did  not, 
answer.  She  appeared  not  to  understand  what  zinc  was,  and  I  had  none 
handy. 


152  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

"She  showed  her  dislike  of  it  in  numerous  ways: 
one  was  her  care  to  avoid  touching  the  sides  or  top 
of  the  enclosure  when  she  was  at  her  gambols.  At 
such  times,  when  she  was  at  her  wildest,  she  was  all 
over  the  place,  skipping  high  like  a  lamb,  twisting 
like  a  leveret,  wheeling  round  and  round  in  circles 
like  a  young  dog,  or  skimming,  like  a  swallow  on 
the  wing,  above  ground.  But  she  never  made  a 
mistake;  she  turned  in  a  moment  or  flung  herself 
backward  if  there  was  the  least  risk  of  contact. 
When  Florrie  used  to  converse  with  her  from  out- 
side, in  that  curious  silent  way  the  two  had,  it  would 
always  be  the  child  that  put  its  hands  through  the 
wire,  never  Thumbeline.  I  once  tried  to  put  her 
against  the  roof  when  I  was  playing  with  her.  She 
screamed  like  a  shot  hare  and  would  not  come  out 
of  the  kennel  all  day.  There  was  no  doubt  at  all 
about  her  feelings  for  zinc.  All  other  metals  seemed 
indifferent  to  her. 

"With  the  advent  of  spring  weather  Thumbeline 
became  not  only  more  beautiful,  but  wilder,  and  ex- 
ceedingly restless.  She  now  coaxed  me  to  let  her 
out,  and  against  my  judgment  I  did  it;  she  had  to 
be  carried  over  the  entry;  for  when  I  had  set  the 
gate  wide  open  and  pointed  her  the  way  into  the 
garden  she  squatted  down  in  her  usual  attitude  of 
attention,  with  her  legs  crossed,  and  watched  me, 
waiting.  I  wanted  to  see  how  she  would  get  through 


BECKWITH'S  CASE  153 

the  hateful  wire,  so  went  away  and  hid  myself,  leaving 
her  alone  with  Bran.  I  saw  her  creep  to  the  entry 
and  peer  at  the  wire.  What  followed  was  curious. 
Bran  came  up  wagging  his  tail  and  stood  close  to 
her,  his  side  against  her  head;  he  looked  down,  in- 
viting her  to  go  out  with  him.  Long  looks  passed 
between  them,  and  then  Bran  stooped  his  head,  she 
put  her  arms  around  his  neck,  twined  her  feet  about 
his  foreleg,  and  was  carried  out.  Then  she  became 
a  mad  thing,  now  bird,  now  moth;  high  and  low, 
round  and  round,  flashing  about  the  place  for  all  the 
world  like  a  humming-bird  moth,  perfectly  beautiful 
in  her  motions  (whose  ease  always  surprised  me), 
and  equally  so  in  her  colouring  of  soft  grey  and 
dusky-rose  flesh.  Bran  grew  a  puppy  again  and 
whipped  about  after  her  in  great  circles  round  the 
meadow.  But  though  he  was  famous  at  coursing, 
and  has  killed  his  hares  single-handed,  he  was  never 
once  near  Thumbeline.  It  was  a  wonderful  sight 
and  made  me  late  for  business. 

"By  degrees  she  got  to  be  very  bold,  and  taught 
me  boldness  too,  and  (I  am  ashamed  to  say)  greater 
degrees  of  deceit.  She  came  freely  into  the  house 
and  played  with  Florrie  up  and  down  stairs;  she  got 
on  my  knee  at  meal-times,  or  evenings  when  my  wife 
and  I  were  together.  Fine  tricks  she  played  me,  I 
must  own.  She  spilled  my  tea  for  me,  broke  cups 
and  saucers,  scattered  my  Patience  cards,  caught 


154  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

poor  Mary's  knitting  wool  and  rolled  it  about  the 
room.  The  cunning  little  creature  knew  that  I 
dared  not  scold  her  or  make  any  kind  of  fuss.  She 
used  to  beseech  me  for  forgiveness  occasionally  when 
I  looked  very  glum,  and  would  touch  my  cheek  to 
make  me  look  at  her  imploring  eyes,  and  keep  me 
looking  at  her  till  I  smiled.  Then  she  would  put 
her  arms  round  my  neck  and  pull  herself  up  to  my 
level  and  kiss  me,  and  then  nestle  down  in  my  arms 
and  pretend  to  sleep.  By-and-by,  when  my  atten- 
tion was  called  off  her,  she  would  pinch  me,  or  tweak 
my  necktie,  and  make  me  look  again  at  her  wicked 
eye  peeping  out  from  under  my  arm.  I  had  to  kiss 
her  again,  of  course,  and  at  last  she  might  go  to 
sleep  in  earnest.  She  seemed  able  to  sleep  at  any 
hour  or  in  any  place,  just  like  an  animal. 

"I  had  some  difficulty  in  arranging  for  the  night 
when  once  she  had  made  herself  free  of  the  house. 
She  saw  no  reason  whatever  for  our  being  separated; 
but  I  circumvented  her  by  nailing  a  strip  of  zinc  all 
round  the  door;  and  I  put  one  round  Florrie's  too. 
I  pretended  to  my  wife  that  it  was  to  keep  out 
draughts.  Thumbeline  was  furious  when  she  found 
out  how  she  had  been  tricked.  I  think  she  never 
quite  forgave  me  for  it.  Where  she  hid  herself  at 
night  I  am  not  sure.  I  think  on  the  sitting-room 
sofa;  but  on  mild  mornings  I  used  to  find  her  out- 
doors, playing  round  Bran's  kennel. 


BECKWITH'S  CASE  155 

"Strap,  our  fox-terrier,  picked  up  some  rat  poison 
towards  the  end  of  April  and  died  in  the  night. 
Thumbeline's  way  of  taking  that  was  very  curious. 
It  shocked  me  a  good  deal.  She  had  never  been  so 
friendly  with  him  as  with  Bran,  though  certainly 
more  at  ease  in  his  company  than  in  mine.  The 
night  before  he  died  I  remember  that  she  and  Bran 
and  he  had  been  having  high  games  in  the  meadow, 
which  had  ended  by  their  all  lying  down  together  in 
a  heap,  Thumbeline's  head  on  Bran's  flank,  and  her 
legs  between  his.  Her  arm  had  been  round  Strap's 
neck  in  a  most  loving  way.  They  made  quite  a 
picture  for  a  Royal  Academician;  'Tired  of  Play/ 
or  'The  End  of  a  Romp,'  I  can  fancy  he  would  call 
it.  Next  morning  I  found  poor  old  Strap  stiff  and 
staring,  and  Thumbeline  and  Bran  at  their  games 
just  the  same.  She  actually  jumped  over  him  and 
all  about  him  as  if  he  had  been  a  lump  of  earth  or  a 
stone.  Just  some  such  thing  he  was  to  her;  she  did 
not  seem  able  to  realise  that  there  was  the  cold  body 
of  her  friend.  Bran  just  sniffed  him  over  and  left 
him,  but  Thumbeline  showed  no  consciousness  that 
he  was  there  at  all.  I  wondered,  was  this  heartless- 
ness  or  obliquity?  But  I  have  never  found  the 
answer  to  my  question.1 


ll  have  observed  this  frequently  for  myself,  and  can  answer  Beck- 
with's  question  for  him.  I  would  refer  the  reader  in  the  first  place  to 
my  early  experience  of  the  boy  (to  call  him  so)  with  the  rabbit  in  the  wood. 
There  was  an  act  of  shocking  cruelty,  done  idly,  almost  unconsciously. 


156  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

"Now  I  come  to  the  tragical  part  of  my  story,  and 
wish  with  all  my  heart  that  I  could  leave  it  out.  But 
beyond  the  full  confession  I  have  made  to  my  wife, 
the  County  Police  and  the  newspapers,  I  feel  that 
I  should  not  shrink  from  any  admission  that  may 
be  called  for  of  how  much  I  have  been  to  blame. 
In  May,  on  the  i3th  of  May,  Thumbeline,  Bran,  and 
our  only  child,  Florrie,  disappeared. 

"It  was  a  day,  I  remember  well,  of  wonderful 
beauty.  I  had  left  them  all  three  together  in  the 
water  meadow,  little  thinking  of  what  was  in  store 
for  us  before  many  hours.  Thumbeline  had  been 
crowning  Florrie  with  a  wreath  of  flowers.  She  had 
gathered  cuckoo-pint  and  marsh  marigolds  and 
woven  them  together,  far  more  deftly  than  any  of 

I  was  not  shocked  at  all,  child  as  I  was,  and  quickly  moved  to  pity  and 
terror,  because  I  knew  that  the  creature  was  not  to  be  judged  by  our 
standards.  From  this  and  other  things  of  the  sort  which  I  have  observed, 
and  from  this  tale  of  Beckwith's,  I  judge  that,  to  the  fairy  kind,  directly 
life  ceases  to  be  lived  at  the  full,  the  object,  be  it  fairy,  or  animal,  or 
vegetable,  is  not  perceived  by  the  other  to  exist.  Thus,  if  a  fairy  should 
die,  the  others  would  not  know  that  its  accidents  were  there;  if  a  rabbit 
(as  in  the  case  cited)  should  be  caught  it  would  therefore  cease  to  be 
rabbit.  We  ourselves  have  very  much  the  same  habit  of  regard  toward 
plant  life.  Our  attitude  to  a  tree  or  a  growing  plant  ceases  the  moment 
that  plant  is  out  of  the  ground.  It  is  then,  as  we  say,  dead — that  is,  it 
ceases  to  be  a  plant.  So  also  we  never  scruple  to  pluck  the  flowers,  or 
the  whole  flower-scape  from  a  plant,  to  put  it  in  our  buttonhole  or  in  the 
bosom  of  our  friend,  and  thereafter  to  cease  our  interest  in  the  plant  as 
such.  It  now  becomes  a  memory,  a  gage  d'amour,  a  token  or  a  sudden 
glory — what  you  will.  This  is  the  habit  of  mankind;  but  I  know  of 
rare  ones,  both  men  and  women,  who  never  allow  dead  flowers  to  be 
thrown  into  the  draught,  but  always  give  them  decent  burial,  either  cre- 
mation or  earth  to  earth.  I  find  that  admirable,  yet  don't  condemn  their 
neighbours,  nor  consider  fairies  cruel  who  torture  the  living  and  disre- 
gard the  maimed  or  the  dead. 


BECKWITH'S  CASE  157 

us  could  have  done,  into  a  chaplet.  I  remember  the 
curious  winding,  wandering  air  she  had  been  singing 
(without  any  words,  as  usual)  over  her  business,  and 
how  she  touched  each  flower  first  with  her  lips,  and 
then  brushed  it  lightly  across  her  bosom  before  she 
wove  it  in.  She  had  kept  her  eyes  on  me  as  she  did 
it,  looking  up  from  under  her  brows,  as  if  to  see 
whether  I  knew  what  she  was  about. 

"I  don't  doubt  now  but  that  she  was  bewitching 
Florrie  by  this  curious  performance,  which  every 
flower  had  to  undergo  separately;  but,  fool  that  I 
was,  I  thought  nothing  of  it  at  the  time,  and  bicycled 
off  to  Salisbury  leaving  them  there. 

"At  noon  my  poor  wife  came  to  me  at  the  Bank 
distracted  with  anxiety  and  fatigue.  She  had  run 
most  of  the  way,  she  gave  me  to  understand.  Her 
news  was  that  Florrie  and  Bran  could  not  be  found 
anywhere.  She  said  that  she  had  gone  to  the  gate 
of  the  meadow  to  call  the  child  in,  and  not  seeing  her, 
or  getting  any  answer,  she  had  gone  down  to  the 
river  at  the  bottom.  Here  she  had  found  a  few 
picked  wild  flowers,  but  no  other  traces.  There 
were  no  footprints  in  the  mud,  either  of  child  or 
dog.  Having  spent  the  morning  with  some  of  the 
neighbours  in  a  fruitless  search,  she  had  now  come 
to  me. 

"My  heart  was  like  lead,  and  shame  prevented 


158  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

me  from  telling  her  the  truth  as  I  was  sure  it  must  be. 
But  my  own  conviction  of  it  clogged  all  my  efforts. 
Of  what  avail  could  it  be  to  inform  the  police  or 
organise  search-parties,  knowing  what  I  knew  only 
too  well?  However,  I  did  put  Gulliver  in  communi- 
cation with  the  head-office  in  Sarum,  and  everything 
possible  was  done.  We  explored  a  circuit  of  six 
miles  about  Wishford;  every  fold  of  the  hills,  every 
spinney,  every  hedgerow  was  thoroughly  examined. 
But  that  first  night  of  grief  had  broken  down  my 
shame:  I  told  my  wife  the  whole  truth  in  the  pres- 
ence of  Reverend  Richard  Walsh,  the  Congrega- 
tional minister,  and  in  spite  of  her  absolute  incredu- 
lity, and,  I  may  add,  scorn,  next  morning  I  repeated 
it  to  Chief  Inspector  Notcutt  of  Salisbury.  Par- 
ticulars got  into  the  local  papers  by  the  following 
Saturday;  and  next  I  had  to  face  the  ordeal  of  the 
Daily  Chronicle,  Daily  News,  Daily  Graphic,  Star, 
and  other  London  journals.  Most  of  these  news- 
papers sent  representatives  to  lodge  in  the  village, 
many  of  them  with  photographic  cameras.  All  this 
hateful  notoriety  I  had  brought  upon  myself,  and 
did  my  best  to  bear  like  the  humble,  contrite  Chris- 
tian which  I  hope  I  may  say  I  have  become.  We 
found  no  trace  of  our  dear  one,  and  never  have  to 
this  day.  Bran,  too,  had  completely  vanished.  I 
have  not  cared  to  keep  a  dog  since. 


BECKWITH'S  CASE  159 

"Whether  my  dear  wife  ever  believed  my  account 
I  cannot  be  sure.  She  has  never  reproached  me  for 
my  wicked  thoughtlessness,  that's  certain.  Mr. 
Walsh,  our  respected  pastor,  who  has  been  so  kind 
as  to  read  this  paper,  told  me  more  than  once  that 
he  could  hardly  doubt  it.  The  Salisbury  police 
made  no  comments  upon  it  one  way  or  another. 
My  colleagues  at  the  Bank,  out  of  respect  for  my 
grief  and  sincere  repentance,  treated  me  with  a  for- 
bearance for  which  I  can  never  be  too  grateful.  I 
need  not  add  that  every  word  of  this  is  absolutely 
true.  I  made  notes  of  the  most  remarkable  charac- 
teristics of  the  being  I  called  Thumbeline  at  the 
time  of  remarking  them,  and  those  notes  are  still  in 
my  possession." 

Here,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  general  reflec- 
tions which  are  of  little  value,  Mr.  Beckwith's  paper 
ends.  It  was  read,  I  ought  to  say,  by  the  Rev. 
Richard  Walsh  at  the  meeting  of  the  South  Wilts 
Folk-lore  Society  and  Field  Club  held  at  Amesbury 
in  June  1892,  and  is  to  be  found  in  the  published 
transactions  of  that  body  (Vol.  IV.  New  Series,  pp. 
305  seq.). 


THE  FAIRY  WIFE 

THERE  is  nothing  surprising  in  that  story,  to  my 
mind,  but  the  reprobation  with  which  Beckwith 
visits  himself.  What  could  he  have  done  that  he 
did  not?  How  could  he  have  refrained  from  doing 
what  he  did?  Yet  there  are  curious  things  about 
it,  and  one  of  those  is  the  partiality  of  the  manifesta- 
tion. The  fairy  was  visible  to  him,  his  child  and  his 
dogs  but  to  no  one  else.  So,  in  my  own  experience, 

had  she  been  whom  I  saw  in  K Park,  whom 

Harkness,  my  companion,  did  not  see.  My  explana- 
tion of  it  does  not  carry  me  over  all  the  difficulties. 
I  say,  or  will  repeat  if  I  have  said  it  before,  that  the 
fairy  kind  are  really  the  spirit,  essence,  substance 
(what  you  will)  of  certain  sensible  things,  such  as 
trees,  flowers,  wind,  water,  hills,  woods,  marshes  and 
the  like,  that  their  normal  appearance  to  us  is  that 
of  these  natural  phenomena;  but  that  in  certain 
states  of  mind,  perhaps  in  certain  conditions  of  body, 
there  is  a  relation  established  by  which  we  are  able 
to  see  them  on  our  own  terms,  as  it  were,  or  in  our 
own  idiom,  and  they  also  to  treat  with  us  to  some 

160 


THE  FAIRY  WIFE  161 

extent,  to  a  large  extent,  on  the  same  plane  or 
standing-ground.  That  there  are  limitations  to  this 
relationship  is  plain  already;  for  instance,  Beckwith 
was  not  able  to  get  his  fairy  prisoner  to  speak,  and 
I  myself  have  never  had  speech  with  more  than  one 
in  my  life.  But  as  to  that  I  shall  have  a  very  curious 
case  to  report  shortly,  where  a  man  taught  his  fairy- 
wife  to  speak. 

The  mentioning  of  that  undoubted  marriage  brings 
me  to  the  question  of  sex.  There  is,  of  course,  not 
the  slightest  doubt  about  it.  Mrs.  Ventris  was  a 
fairy  wife.  Mrs.  Ventris  was  a  puzzle  to  me  for  a 
good  many  years — in  fact  until  Despoina  explained 
to  me  many  things.  For  Mrs.  Ventris  had  a  per- 
manent human  shape,  and  spoke  as  freely  as  you  or 
I.  I  thought  at  one  time  that  she  might  be  the  off- 
spring of  a  mixed  marriage,  like  Elsie  Marks  (whose 
mother,  by  the  way,  was  another  case  of  the  sort) ; 
but  in  fact  Mrs.  Ventris  and  Mrs.  Marks  were  both 
fairy  wives,  and  the  wood-girl,  Mabilla  King,  whose 
case  I  am  going  to  deal  with  was  another.  But  this 
particular  relationship  is  one  which  my  explanation 
of  fairy  apparitions  does  not  really  cover:  for  mar- 
riage implies  a  permanent  accessibility  (to  put  it  so) 
of  two  normally  inaccessible  natures;  and  parentage 
implies  very  much  more.  That,  indeed,  implies  what 
the  Christians  call  Miracle;  but  it  is  quite  beyond 


162  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

dispute.  I  have  a  great  number  of  cases  ready  to 
my  hand,  and  shall  deal  at  large  with  all  of  them  in 
the  course  of  this  essay,  in  which  fairies  have  had 
intercourse  with  mortals.  It  is  by  no  means  the 
fact  that  the  wife  is  always  of  the  fairy-kind.  My 

own  experience  at  C shall  prove  that.    But  I 

must  content  myself  with  mentioning  the  well- 
known  case  of  Mary  Wellwood  who  was  wife  to  a 
carpenter  near  Ashby  de  la  Zouche,  and  was  twice 
taken  by  a  fairy  and  twice  recovered.  She  had 
children  in  each  of  her  states  of  being,  and  on  one 
recorded  occasion  her  two  families  met.  It  appears 
to  be  a  law  that  the  wife  takes  the  nature  of  the 
husband,  or  as  much  of  it  as  she  can,  and  it  is  im- 
portant to  remark  that  in  all  cases  the  children  are 
of  the  husband's  nature,  fairy  or  mortal  as  he  may 
happen  to  be.  "Nature,"  Despoina  told  me,  "fol- 
lows the  male."  So  far  as  fairies  are  concerned  it 
seems  certain  that  union  with  mortals  runs  in  fam- 
ilies or  clans,  if  one  may  so  describe  their  curious 
relationships  to  each  other.  There  were  five  sisters 
of  the  wood  in  one  of  the  Western  departments  of 
France  (Lot-et-Garonne,  I  think),  who  all  married 
men:  two  of  them  married  two  brothers.  Apart 
they  led  the  decorous  lives  of  the  French  middle 
class,  but  when  they  were  together  it  was  a  sight  to 
see!  A  curious  one,  and  to  us,  with  our  strong  asso- 


THE  FAIRY  WIFE  163 

ciations  of  ideas,  that  tremendous  hand  which 
memory  has  upon  our  heart-strings,  a  poignant  one. 
For  they  had  lost  their  powers,  but  not  their  impulses. 
It  was  a  case  of  si  meillesse  pouvait.  I  suppose  they 
may  have  appeared  to  some  chance  wayfarer,  get- 
ting a  glimpse  of  them  at  their  gambols  between  the 
poplar  stems  of  the  road,  or  in  the  vistas  of  the  hazel- 
brakes,  as  a  company  of  sprightly  matrons  on  a 
frolic.  To  the  Greeks  foolishness!  And  be  sure  that 
such  an  observer  would  shrug  them  out  of  mind. 
My  own  impression  is  that  these  ladies  were  perfectly 
happy,  that  they  had  nothing  of  that  maggior'  dolore 
which  we  mortals  know,  and  for  which  our  joys 
have  so  often  to  pay.  Let  us  hope  so  at  any  rate, 
for  about  a  fairy  or  a  growing  boy  conscious  of  the 
prison-shades  could  Poe  have  spun  his  horrors. 

"To  the  Greeks  foolishness,"  I  said  in  my  haste; 
but  in  very  truth  it  was  far  from  being  so.  To  the 
Greeks  there  was  nothing  extraordinary  in  the  par- 
entage of  a  river  or  the  love  of  a  God  for  a  mortal. 
Nor  should  there  be  to  a  Christian  who  accepts  the 
orthodox  account  of  the  foundation  of  his  faith.  So 
far  as  we  know,  the  generative  process  of  every 
created  thing  is  the  same;  it  is,  therefore,  an  allow- 
able inference  that  the  same  process  obtains  with  the 
created  things  which  are  not  sensible  to  ourselves. 
If  flowers  mate  and  beget  as  we  do,  why  not  winds 


1 64  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

and  waters,  why  not  gods  and  nymphs,  fauns  and 
fairies?  It  is  the  creative  urgency  that  imports 
more  than  the  creative  matter.  To  my  mind,  magna 
componere  parvis,  it  is  my  fixed  belief  that  all  created 
nature  known  to  us  is  the  issue  of  the  mighty  love 
of  God  for  his  first-made  creature  the  Earth.  I  ac- 
cept the  Greek  mythology  as  the  nearest  account 
of  the  truth  we  are  likely  to  get.  I  have  never  had 
the  least  difficulty  in  accepting  it;  and  all  I  have  since 
found  out  of  the  relations  of  men  with  their  fellow- 
creatures  of  other  genera  confirms  me  in  the  belief 
that  the  urgency  is  the  paramount  necessity. 

If  I  am  to  deal  with  a  case  of  a  mixed  marriage, 
where  the  wife  was  a  fairy,  the  spirit  of  a  tree,  I  shall 
ask  leave  to  set  down  first  a  plain  proposition,  which 
is  that  all  Natural  Facts  (as  wind,  hills,  lakes,  trees, 
animals,  rain,  rivers,  flowers)  have  an  underlying 
Idea  or  Soul  whereby  they  really  are  what  they  ap- 
pear, to  which  they  owe  the  beauty,  majesty,  pity, 
terror,  love,  which  they  excite  in  us;  and  that  this 
Idea,  or  Soul,  having  a  real  existence  of  its  own  in 
community  with  its  companions  of  the  same  nature, 
can  be  discerned  by  mortal  men  in  forms  which  best 
explain  to  human  intelligence  the  passions  which  they 
excite  in  human  breasts.  This  is  how  I  explain  the 
fact,  for  instance,  that  the  austerity  of  a  lonely  rock 
at  sea  will  take  the  form  and  semblance,  and  much 


THE  FAIRY  WIFE  165 

more  than  that,  assume  the  prerogatives  of  a  brood- 
ing man,  or  that  the  swift  freedom  of  a  river  will 
pass  by,  as  in  a  flash,  in  the  coursing  limbs  of  a  youth, 
or  that  at  dusk,  out  of  a  reed-encircled  mountain- 
tarn,  silvery  under  the  hush  of  the  grey  hour,  there 
will  rise,  and  gleam,  and  sink  again,  the  pale  face, 
the  shoulders  and  breast  of  the  Spirit  of  the  Pool; 
that,  finally,  the  grace  of  a  tree,  and  its  panic  of  fury 
when  lashed  by  storm,  very  capable  in  either  case 
of  inspiring  love  or  horror,  will  be  revealed  rarely  in 
the  form  of  a  nymph.  There  may  be  a  more  rational 
explanation  of  these  curious  things,  but  I  don't  know 
of  one: 

Fortunatus  et  ilk,  Deos  gui  novit  agrestest 

Happy  may  one  be  in  the  fairies  of  our  own  coun- 
try. Happy,  even  yet,  are  they  who  can  find  the 
Oreads  of  the  hill,  Dryads  of  the  wood,  nymphs  of 
river,  marsh,  plough-land,  pasture,  and  heath.  Now, 
leaving  to  Greece  the  things  that  are  Greek,  here  for 
an  apologue  follows  a  plain  recital  of  facts  within  the 
knowledge  of  every  man  of  the  Cheviots. 

I 

There  is  in  that  country,  not  far  from  Otterburn 
— between  Otterburn  and  the  Scottish  border — a  re- 
mote hamlet  consisting  of  a  few  white  cottages,  farm 


1 66  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

buildings  and  a  shingle-spired  church.  It  is  called 
Dryhope,  and  lies  in  a  close  valley,  which  is  watered 
by  a  beck  or  burn,  known  as  the  Dryhope  Burn.  It 
is  deeply  buried  in  the  hills.  Spurs  of  the  Cheviots 
as  these  are,  they  rise  to  a  considerable  elevation, 
but  are  pasturable  nearly  to  the  top.  There,  how- 
ever, where  the  heather  begins,  peat-hags  and  mo- 
rasses make  dangerous  provision,  from  which  the 
flocks  are  carefully  guarded.  It  is  the  practice  of 
the  country  for  the  shepherds  to  be  within  touch 
of  them  all  night,  lest  some,  feeding  upward  (as 
sheep  always  do)  should  reach  the  summits  and  be 
lost  or  mired  inextricably.  These  upland  stretches, 
consequently,  are  among  the  most  desolate  spots  to 
be  found  in  our  islands.  I  have  walked  over  them 
myself  within  recent  years  and  met  not  a  human 
soul,  nor  beast  of  man's  taming.  Ravens,  curlews, 
peewits,  a  lagging  fox  or  limping  hare;  such,  with 
the  unsensed  Spirits  of  the  Earth,  will  be  your  com- 
pany. In  particular  I  traversed  (in  1902)  the  great 
upland  called  Limmer  Fell,  and  saw  the  tarn — Silent 
Water — and  the  trees  called  The  Seven  Sisters. 
They  are  silver  birches  of  remarkable  size  and 
beauty.  One  of  them  is  fallen.  Standing  there, 
looking  north-west,  the  Knapp  may  be  seen  easily, 
some  five  miles  away;  and  the  extent  of  the  forest 
with  which  it  is  covered  can  be  estimated.  A  great 


THE  FAIRY  WIFE  167 

and  solemn  wood  that  is,  which  no  borderer  will  ever 
enter  if  he  can  help  it. 

There  was — and  may  be  still — &  family  of  shep- 
herds living  in  Dryhope  of  the  name  of  King.  When 
these  things  occurred  there  were  alive  George  King, 
a  patriarch  of  seventy-five  years,  Miranda  King,  his 
daughter-in-law,  widow  of  his  son,  who  was  supposed 
to  be  a  middle-aged  woman,  and  a  young  man,  An- 
drew King,  her  only  son.  That  was  the  family;  and 
there  was  a  girl,  Bessie  Prawle,  daughter  of  a  neigh- 
bour, very  much  in  and  out  of  the  house,  and  held 
by  common  report  to  be  betrothed  to  Andrew.  She 
used  to  help  the  widow  in  domestic  matters,  see  to 
the  poultry,  milk  the  cow,  churn  the  butter,  press 
the  cheeses.  The  Kings  were  independent  people, 
like  the  dalesmen  of  Cumberland,  and  stood,  as  the 
saying  is,  upon  their  own  foot-soles.  Old  King  had 
a  tenant-right  upon  the  fell,  and  owed  no  man  any- 
thing. 

There  was  said  to  be  a  mystery  connected  with 
Miranda  the  widow,  who  was  a  broad-browed,  deep- 
breasted,  handsome  woman,  very  dark  and  silent. 
She  was  not  a  native  of  Redesdale,  not  known  to  be 
of  Northumberland.  Her  husband,  who  had  been 
a  sailor,  had  brought  her  back  with  him  one  day, 
saying  that  she  was  his-  wife  and  her  name  Miranda. 
He  had  said  no  more  about  her,  would  say  no  more, 


1 68  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

and  had  been  drowned  at  sea  before  his  son  was  born. 
She,  for  her  part,  had  been  as  uncommunicative  as 
he.  Such  reticence  breeds  wonderment  in  the  minds 
of  such  a  people  as  they  of  Dryhope,  and  out  of 
wonderment  arise  wonders.  It  was  told  that  until 
Miranda  King  was  brought  in  sea-birds  had  never 
been  seen  in  Dryhopedale.  It  was  said  that  they 
came  on  that  very  night  when  George  King  the 
younger  came  home,  and  she  with  him,  carrying  his 
bundle  and  her  own.  It  was  said  that  they  had 
never  since  left  the  hamlet,  and  that  when  Miranda 
went  out  of  doors,  which  was  seldom,  she  was  fol- 
lowed by  clouds  of  them  whichever  way  she  turned. 
I  have  no  means  of  testing  the  truth  of  these  rumours, 
but,  however  it  may  be,  no  scandal  was  ever  brought 
against  her.  She  was  respectable  and  respected. 
Old  King,  the  grandfather,  relied  strongly  upon  her 
judgment.  She  brought  up  her  son  in  decent  living 
and  the  fear  of  God. 

In  the  year  when  Andrew  was  nineteen  he  was  a 
tall,  handsome  lad,  and  a  shepherd,  following  the 
profession,  as  he  was  to  inherit  the  estate,  of  his  fore- 
bears. One  April  night  in  that  year  he  and  his 
grandfather,  the  pair  of  them  with  a  collie,  lay  out 
on  the  fell-side  together.  Lambing  is  late  in  Redes- 
dale,  the  spring  comes  late;  April  is  often  a  month 
of  snow. 


THE  FAIRY  WIFE  169 

They  had  a  fire  and  their  cloaks;  the  ground  was 
dry,  and  they  lay  upon  it  under  a  clear  sky  strewn 
with  stars.  At  midnight  George  King,  the  grand- 
father, was  asleep,  but  Andrew  was  broad  awake. 
He  heard  the  flock  (which  he  could  not  see)  sweep 
by  him  like  a  storm,  the  bell-wether  leading,  and  as 
they  went  up  the  hill  the  wind  began  to  blow,  a  long, 
steady,  following  blast.  The  collie  on  his  feet,  ears 
set  flat  on  his  head,  shuddering  with  excitement, 
whined  for  orders.  Andrew,  after  waking  with  diffi- 
culty his  grandfather,  was  told  to  go  up  and  head 
them  off.  He  sent  the  dog  one  way — off  in  a  flash, 
he  never  returned  that  night — and  himself  went  an- 
other. He  was  not  seen  again  for  two  days.  To  be 
exact,  he  set  out  at  midnight  on  Thursday  the  i2th 
April,  and  did  not  return  to  Dryhope  until  eleven 
o'clock  of  the  morning  of  Saturday  the  i4th.  The 
sheep,  I  may  say  here,  came  back  by  themselves  on 
the  1 3th,  the  intervening  day. 

That  night  of  the  i2th  April  is  still  commemorated 
in  Dryhope  as  one  of  unexampled  spring  storm,  just 
as  a  certain  October  night  of  the  next  year  stands 
yet  as  the  standard  of  comparison  for  all  equinoctial 
gales.  The  April  storm,  we  hear,  was  very  short 
and  had  several  peculiar  features.  It  arose  out  of  a 
clear  sky,  blew  up  a  snow-cloud  which  did  no  more 
than  powder  the  hills,  and  then  continued  to  blow 


LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

furiously  out  of  a  clear  sky.  It  was  steady  but  in- 
conceivably strong  while  it  lasted;  the  force  and 
pressure  of  the  wind  did  not  vary  until  just  the  end. 
It  came  from  the  south-east,  which  is  the  rainy 
quarter  in  Northumberland,  but  without  rain.  It 
blew  hard  from  midnight,  until  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  and  then,  for  half  an  hour,  a  hurricane. 
The  valley  and  hamlet  escaped  as  by  a  miracle.  Mr. 
Robson,  the  vicar,  awakened  by  it,  heard  the  wind 
like  thunder  overhead  and  went  out  of  doors  to  ob- 
serve it.  He  went  out  into  a  still,  mild  air  coming 
from  the  north-west,  and  still  heard  it  roaring  like  a 
mad  thing  high  above  him.  Its  direction,  as  he 
judged  by  sound,  was  the  precise  contrary  of  the 
ground  current.  In  the  morning,  wreckage  of  all 
kinds,  branches  of  trees,  roots,  and  whole  clumps  of 
heather  strewn  about  the  village  and  meadows,  while 
showing  that  a  furious  battle  had  been  fought  out 
on  the  fells,  confirmed  this  suspicion.  A  limb  of  a 
tree,  draped  in  ivy,  was  recognised  as  part  of  an  old 
favourite  of  his  walks.  The  ash  from  which  it  had 
been  torn  stood  to  the  south-east  of  the  village.  In 
the  course  of  the  day  (the  i3th)  news  was  brought 
hi  that  one  of  the  Seven  Sisters  was  fallen,  and  that 
a  clean  drive  could  be  seen  through  the  forest  on 
the  top  of  Knapp.  Coupled  with  these  dreadful  tes- 
timonies you  have  the  disappearance  of  Andrew  King 


THE  FAIRY  WIFE  171 

to  help  you  form  your  vision  of  a  village  in  conster- 
nation. 

Hear  now  what  befell  young  Andrew  King  when 
he  swiftly  climbed  the  fell,  driven  forward  by  the 
storm.  The  facts  are  that  he  was  agog  for  adventure, 
since,  all  unknown  to  any  but  himself,  he  had  ven- 
tured to  the  summits  before,  had  stood  by  Silent 
Water,  touched  the  Seven  Sisters  one  by  one,  and 
had  even  entered  the  dreadful,  haunted,  forest  of 
Knapp.  He  had  had  a  fright,  had  been  smitten  by 
that  sudden  gripe  of  fear  which  palsies  limbs  and 
freezes  blood,  which  the  ancients  called  the  Stroke 
of  Pan,  and  we  still  call  Panic  after  them.  He  had 
never  forgotten  what  he  had  seen,  though  he  had 
lost  the  edge  of  the  fear  he  had.  He  was  older  now 
by  some  two  years,  and  only  waiting  the  opportunity 
for  renewed  experience.  He  hoped  to  have  it — and 
he  had  it. 

The  streaming  gale  drove  him  forward  as  a  ship 
at  sea.  He  ran  lightly,  without  fatigue  or  troubled 
breath.  Dimly  above  him  he  presently  saw  the 
seven  trees,  dipping  and  louting  to  the  weather;  but 
as  he  neared  them  they  had  no  meaning  for  him,  did 
not,  indeed,  exist.  For  now  he  saw  more  than  they, 
and  otherwise  than  men  see  trees. 


172  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

II 

In  a  mild  and  steady  light,  which  came  from  no 
illumination  of  moon  or  stars,  but  seemed  to  be  in- 
terfused with  the  air,  in  the  strong  warm  wind  which 
wrapped  the  fell- top;  upon  a  sward  of  bent-grass 
which  ran  toward  the  tarn  and  ended  in  swept  reeds 
he  saw  six  young  women  dancing  in  a  ring.  Not  to 
any  music  that  he  could  hear  did  they  move,  nor 
was  the  rhythm  of  their  movement  either  ordered  or 
wild.  It  was  not  formal  dancing,  and  it  was  not 
at  all  a  Bacchic  rout:  rather  they  flitted  hither  and 
thither  on  the  turf,  now  touching  hands,  now  strain- 
ing heads  to  one  another,  crossing,  meeting,  parting, 
winding  about  and  about  with  the  purposeless  and 
untirable  frivolity  of  moths.  They  seemed  neither 
happy  nor  unhappy,  they  made  no  sound;  it  looked 
to  the  lad  as  if  they  had  been  so  drifting  from  the 
beginning,  and  would  so  drift  to  the  end  of  things 
temporal.  Their  loose  hair  streamed  out  in  the 
wind,  their  light  gossamer  gowns  streamed  the  same 
way,  whipped  about  their  limbs  as  close  as  wet 
muslin.  They  were  bare-footed,  bare-armed,  and 
bare-headed.  They  all  had  beauty,  but  it  was  not 
of  earthly  cast.  He  saw  one  with  hair  like  pale  silk, 
and  one,  ruddy  and  fierce  in  the  face,  with  snaky 
black  hair  which,  he  thought,  flew  out  beyond  her 


THE  FAIRY  WIFE  173 

for  a  full  yard's  measure.  Another  had  hazel-brown 
hair  and  a  sharp  little  peering  face;  another's  was 
colour  of  ripe  corn,  and  another's  like  a  thunder- 
cloud, copper-tinged.  About  and  about  they  went, 
skimming  the  tops  of  the  grasses,  and  Andrew  King, 
his  heart  hammering  at  his  ribs,  watched  them  at 
their  play.  So  by  chance  one  saw  him,  and  screamed 
shrilly,  and  pointed  at  him. 

Then  they  came  about  him  like  a  swarm  of  bees, 
angry  at  first,  humming  a  note  like  that  of  the  tele- 
graph wire  on  a  mountain  road,  but,  as  he  stood  his 
ground,  curiosity  prevailed  among  them  and  they 
pried  closely  at  him.  They  touched  him,  felt  his 
arms,  his  knees,  handled  his  clothing,  peered  into 
his  eyes.  All  this  he  endured,  though  he  was  in  a 
horrible  fright.  Then  one,  the  black-haired  girl  with 
a  bold,  proud  face,  came  and  stood  closely  before 
him  and  looked  him  full  into  his  eyes.  He  gave  her 
look  for  look.  She  put  a  hand  on  each  shoulder  and 
kissed  him.  After  that  there  was  a  tussle  among 
them,  for  each  must  do  what  her  sister  had  done. 
They  took  a  kiss  apiece,  or  maybe  more;  then,  cir- 
cling round  him,  they  swept  him  forward  on  the 
wind,  past  Silent  Water,  over  the  Edge,  out  on  the 
fells,  on  and  on  and  on,  and  never  stopped  till  they 
reached  Knapp  Forest,  that  dreadful  place. 

There  in  the  hushed  aisles  and  glades  they  played 


174  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

with  this  new-found  creature,  played  with  him, 
fought  for  him,  and  would  have  loved  him  if  he  had 
been  minded  for  such  adventuring.  Two  in  particu- 
lar he  marked  as  desiring  his  closer  company — the 
black-haired  and  bold  was  one,  and  the  other  was 
the  sharp-faced  and  slim  with  eyes  of  a  mouse  and 
hazel-brown  hair.  He  called  her  the  laughing  girl 
and  thought  her  the  kindest  of  them  all.  But  they 
were  all  his  friends  at  this  time.  Andrew  King,  like 
young  Tamlane,  might  have  sojourned  with  them  for 
ever  and  a  day,  but  for  one  thing.  He  saw  by  chance 
a  seventh  maiden — a  white-faced,  woe-begone,  horror- 
struck  Seventh  Sister,  blenched  and  frozen  under  a 
great  beech.  She  may  have  been  there  throughout 
his  commerce  with  the  rest,  or  she  may  have  been 
revealed  to  him  in  a  flash  then  and  there.  So  as  it 
was  he  saw  her  suddenly,  and  thereafter  saw  no 
other  at  all.  She  held  his  eyes  waking;  he  left  his 
playmates  and  went  to  her  where  she  crouched.  He 
stooped  and  took  her  hand.  It  was  as  cold  as  a  dead 
girl's  and  very  heavy.  Amid  the  screaming  of  the 
others,  undeterred  by  their  whirling  and  battling,  he 
lifted  up  the  frozen  one.  He  lifted  her  bodily  and 
carried  her  in  his  arms.  They  swept  all  about  him 
like  infuriated  birds.  The  sound  of  their  rage  was 
like  that  of  gulls  about  a  fish  in  the  tide-way;  but 
they  laid  no  hands  on  him,  and  said  nothing  that  he 


THE  FAIRY  WIFE  175 

could  understand,  and  by  this  time  his  awe  was 
gone,  and  his  heart  was  on  fire.  Holding  fast  to 
what  he  had  and  wanted,  he  pushed  out  of  Knapp 
Forest  and  took  the  lee-side  of  the  Edge  on  his  way 
to  Dryhope.  This  must  have  been  about  the  time 
of  the  gale  at  its  worst.  The  Seventh  Sister  by 
Silent  Water  may  have  fallen  at  this  time;  for  had 
not  Andrew  King  the  Seventh  Sister  in  his  arms? 

Anxiety  as  to  the  fate  of  Andrew  King  was  spread 
over  the  village  and  the  greatest  sympathy  felt  for 
the  bereaved  family.  To  have  lost  a  flock  of  sheep, 
a  dog,  and  an  only  child  at  one  blow  is  a  terrible  mis- 
fortune. Old  King,  I  am  told,  was  prostrated,  and 
the  girl,  Bessie  Prawle,  violent  in  her  lamentations 
over  her  "lad."  The  only  person  unmoved  was  the 
youth's  mother,  Miranda  King  the  widow.  She,  it 
seems,  had  no  doubts  of  his  safety,  and  declared  that 
he  "would  come  in  his  time,  like  his  father  before 
him" — a  saying  which,  instead  of  comforting  the 
mourners,  appears  to  have  exasperated  them.  Prob- 
ably they  did  not  at  all  understand  it.  Such  con- 
solations as  Mr.  Robson  the  minister  had  to  offer  she 
received  respectfully,  but  without  comment.  All  she 
had  to  say  was  that  she  could  trust  her  son;  and 
when  he  urged  that  she  had  better  by  far  trust  in 
God,  her  reply,  finally  and  shortly,  was  that  God 
was  bound  by  His  own  laws  and  had  not  given  us 


1 76  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

heads  and  hearts  for  nothing.  I  am  free  to  admit 
that  her  theology  upon  this  point  seems  to  me  re- 
markably sound. 

In  the  course  of  the  i3th,  anxious  day  as  it  prom- 
ised to  be,  old  George  King,  returning  from  a  fruit- 
less quest  over  the  fells,  came  upon  his  sheep  within 
a  few  hundred  yards  of  his  own  house,  collected  to- 
gether in  a  flock  and  under  the  watch  of  his  dog. 
They  were,  hi  fact,  as  nearly  as  possible  where  he 
had  understood  them  to  be  before  their  stampede  of 
the  previous  night.  He  was  greatly  heartened  by  the 
discovery,  though  unable  to  account  for  the  facts  of 
it.  The  dog  was  excessively  tired,  and  ate  greedily. 
Next  morning,  when  the  family  and  some  neighbours 
were  standing  together  on  the  fell-side  looking  up  the 
valley  where  the  Dry  hope  burn  comes  down  from 
the  hills,  they  saw  two  figures  on  the  rough  road 
which  follows  it.  Mrs.  King,  the  widow,  I  believe, 
had  seen  them  first,  but  she  had  said  nothing.  It 
was  Bessie  Prawle  who  raised  the  first  cry  that 
"Andrew  was  coming,  and  his  wife  with  him."  All 
looked  in  the  direction  she  showed  them  and  recog- 
nised the  young  man.  Behind  him  walked  the  figure 
of  a  woman.  This  is  the  accustomed  manner  of  a 
man  and  wife  to  walk  in  that  country.  It  is  almost 
a  proof  of  their  relationship.  Being  satisfied  of  the 
identity  of  their  child  the  whole  party  returned  to 


THE  FAIRY  WIFE  177 

the  homestead  to  await  him  and  what  he  was  bring- 
ing with  him.  Speculation  was  rife  and  volubly  ex- 
pressed, especially  by  Bessie  Prawle.  Miranda  King, 
however,  was  silent;  but  it  was  noticed  that  she  kept 
her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  woman  behind  her  son,  and 
that  her  lips  moved  as  if  she  was  muttering  to  herself. 

The  facts  were  as  the  expectations.  Andrew  King 
brought  forward  a  young,  timid  and  unknown  girl  as 
his  wife.  By  that  name  he  led  her  up  to  his  grand- 
father, then  to  his  mother;  as  such  he  explained  her 
to  his  neighbours,  including  (though  not  by  name) 
Bessie  Prawle,  who  had  undoubtedly  hoped  to  occupy 
that  position  herself. 

Old  King,  overcome  with  joy  at  seeing  his  boy 
alive  and  well,  and  dazed,  probably,  by  events,  put 
his  hands  upon  the  girl's  head  and  blessed  her  after 
the  patriarchal  fashion  there  persisting.  He  seems 
to  have  taken  canonical  marriage  for  granted,  though 
nobody  else  did,  and  though  a  moment's  reflection, 
had  he  been  capable  of  so  much,  would  have  shown 
him  that  that  could  not  be.  The  neighbours  were  too 
well  disposed  to  the  family  to  raise  any  doubts  or 
objections;  Bessie  Prawle  was  sullen  and  quiet;  only 
Miranda  King  seems  to  have  been  equal  to  the  occa- 
sion. She,  as  if  in  complete  possession  of  facts  which 
satisfied  every  question,  received  the  girl  as  an  equal. 
She  did  not  kiss  her  or  touch  her,  but  looked  deeply 


178  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

into  her  eyes  for  a  long  space  of  time,  and  took  from 
her  again  an  equally  searching  regard;  then,  turn- 
ing to  her  father-in-law  and  the  company  at  large, 
she  said,  "This  is  begun,  and  will  be  done.  He  is 
like  his  father  before  him."  To  that  oracular  utter- 
ance old  King,  catching  probably  but  the  last  sen- 
tence, replied,  "And  he  couldn't  do  better,  my  child." 
He  meant  no  more  than  a  testimony  to  his  daughter- 
in-law.  Mrs.  King's  observations,  coupled  with  that, 
nevertheless,  went  far  to  give  credit  to  the  alleged 
marriage. 

The  girl,  so  far,  had  said  nothing  whatever,  though 
she  had  been  addressed  with  more  than  one  rough 
but  kindly  compliment  on  her  youth  and  good  looks. 
And  now  Andrew  King  explained  that  she  was  dumb. 
Consternation  took  the  strange  form  of  jocular  ap- 
proval of  his  discretion  in  selecting  a  wife  who  could 
never  nag  him — but  it  was  consternation  none  the 
less.  The  mystery  was  felt  to  be  deeper;  there  was 
nothing  for  it  now  but  to  call  in  the  aid  of  the  parish 
priest — "the  minister,"  as  they  called  him — and  this 
was  done.  By  the  time  he  had  arrived,  Miranda 
KJng  had  taken  the  girl  into  the  cottage,  and  the 
young  husband  and  his  grandfather  had  got  the 
neighbours  to  disperse.  Bessie  Prawle,  breathing 
threatenings  and  slaughter,  had  withdrawn  herself. 

Mr.  Robson,  a  quiet  sensible  man  of  nearer  sixty 


THE  FAIRY  WIFE  179 

than  fifty  years,  sat  in  the  cottage,  hearing  all  that 
his  parishioners  could  tell  him  and  using  his  eyes. 
He  saw  the  centre-piece  of  all  surmise,  a  shrinking, 
pale  slip  of  a  girl,  by  the  look  of  her  not  more  than 
fifteen  or  sixteen  years  old.  She  was  not  emaciated 
by  any  means,  seemed  to  be  well  nourished,  and  was 
quite  as  vigorous  as  any  child  of  that  age  who  could 
have  been  pitted  against  her.  Her  surroundings 
cowed  her,  he  judged.  To  Dryhope  she  was  a 
stranger,  a  foreigner;  to  her  Dryhope  and  the  Dry- 
hopedale  folk  were  perilous  matter.  Her  general 
appearance  was  that  of  a  child  who  had  never  had 
anything  but  ill-usage;  she  flinched  at  every  sudden 
movement,  and  followed  one  about  with  her  great 
unintelligent  eyes,  as  if  she  was  trying  to  compre- 
hend what  they  showed  her.  Her  features  were 
regular  and  delicate;  her  brows  broad  and  eyebrows 
finely  arched,  her  chin  full,  her  neck  slim,  her  hands 
and  feet  narrow  and  full  of  what  fanciers  call "  breed." 
Her  hair  was  very  long  and  fine,  dark  brown  with 
gleams  of  gold;  her  eyes  were  large,  grey  in  colour, 
but,  as  I  have  said,  unintelligent,  like  an  animal's, 
which  to  us  always  seem  unintelligent.  I  should 
have  mentioned,  for  Mr.  Robson  noticed  it  at  once, 
that  her  hair  was  unconfined,  and  that,  so  far  as  he 
could  make  out,  she  wore  but  a  single  garment — a 
sleeveless  frock,  confined  at  the  waist  and  reaching 


i8o  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

to  her  knees.  It  was  of  the  colour  of  unbleached 
flax  and  of  a  coarse  web.  Her  form  showed  through, 
and  the  faint  flush  of  her  skin.  She  was  a  finely 
made  girl.  Her  legs  and  feet  were  bare.  Immodest 
as  such  an  appearance  would  have  been  in  one  of  the 
village  maids,  he  did  not  feel  it  to  be  so  with  her. 
Her  look  was  so  entirely  foreign  to  his  experience 
that  there  was  no  standard  of  comparison.  Every- 
thing about  her  seemed  to  him  to  be  quite  what  one 
would  have  expected,  until  one  came,  so  to  speak, 
in  touch  with  her  soul.  That,  it  it  lay  behind  her 
inscrutable,  sightless  and  dumb  eyes,  betrayed  her. 
There  was  no  hint  of  it.  Human  in  form,  visibly  and 
tangibly  human,  no  soul  sat  in  her  great  eyes  that  a 
man  could  discern.  That,  however,  is  not  now  the 
point.  Rather  it  is  that,  to  all  appearance  a  modest 
and  beautiful  girl,  she  was  remarkably  undressed. 
It  was  inconceivable  that  a  modest  and  beautiful 
girl  could  so  present  herself,  and  yet  a  modest  and 
beautiful  girl  she  was. 

Mr.  Robson  put  it  to  himself  this  way.  There 
are  birds — for  instance,  jays,  kingfishers,  goldfinches 
— which  are,  taken  absolutely,  extremely  brilliant  in 
colouring.  Yet  they  do  not  jar,  are  not  obtrusive. 
So  it  was  with  her.  Her  dress  was,  perhaps,  taken 
absolutely,  indecorous.  Upon  her  it  looked  at  once 
seemly  and  beautiful.  Upon  Bessie  Prawle  it  would 


THE  FAIRY  WIFE  181 

have  been  glaring;  but  one  had  to  dissect  it  before 
one  could  discover  any  fault  with  it  upon  its  wearer. 
She  was  very  pale,  even  to  the  lips,  which  were  full 
and  parted,  as  if  she  must  breathe  through  her  mouth. 
He  noticed  immediately  the  shortness  of  her  breath. 
It  was  very  distressing,  and  after  a  little  while  in- 
duced the  same  thing  in  himself.  And  not  in  him 
only,  but  I  can  fancy  that  the  whole  group  of  them 
sitting  round  her  where  she  was  crouched  against  Mi- 
randa King's  knees,  were  panting  away  like  steam- 
engines  before  they  had  done  with  her.  While  Mr. 
Robson  was  there  Miranda  never  took  her  arm  off 
her  shoulder  for  a  moment;  but  the  girl's  eyes  were 
always  fixed  upon  Andrew,  who  called  himself  her 
husband,  unless  her  apprehensions  were  directly 
called  elsewhere.  In  that  case  she  would  look  in 
the  required  direction  for  the  fraction  of  a  second, 
terrified  and  ready,  as  you  may  say,  to  die  at  a  move- 
ment, and  then,  her  fears  at  rest,  back  to  her  hus- 
band's face. 

Mr.  Robson's  first  business  was  to  examine  Andrew 
King,  a  perfectly  honest,  well-behaved  lad,  whom  he 
had  known  from  his  cradle.  He  was  candid — up  to 
a  point.  He  had  found  her  on  the  top  of  Knapp 
Fell,  he  said;  she  had  been  with  others,  who  ill- 
treated  her.  What  others?  Others  of  her  sort. 
Fairies,  he  said,  who  lived  up  there.  He  pressed 


1 82  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

him  about  this.  Fairies?  Did  he  really  believe  in 
such  beings?  Like  all  country  people  he  spoke  about 
these  things  with  the  utmost  difficulty,  and  when 
confronted  by  worldly  wisdom,  became  dogged.  He 
said  how  could  he  help  it  when  here  was  one?  Mr. 
Robson  told  him  that  he  was  begging  the  question, 
but  he  looked  very  blank.  To  the  surprise  of  the 
minister,  old  King — old  George  King,  the  grand- 
father— had  no  objections  to  make  to  the  suggestion 
of  fairies  on  Knapp  Fell.  He  could  not  say,  there 
was  no  telling;  Knapp  was  a  known  place;  strange 
things  were  recorded  of  the  forest.  Miranda,  his 
daughter-in-law,  was  always  a  self-contained  woman, 
with  an  air  about  her  of  being  forewarned.  He  in- 
stanced her,  and  the  minister  asked  her  several  ques- 
tions. Being  pressed,  she  finally  said,  "Sir,  my  son 
is  as  likely  right  as  wrong.  We  must  all  make  up 
our  own  minds."  There  that  matter  had  to  be  left. 
Andrew  said  that  he  had  followed  the  fairies  from 
the  tarn  on  Lammer  Fell  into  Knapp  Forest.  They 
had  run  away  from  him,  taking  this  girl  of  his,  as  he 
supposed,  with  them.  He  had  followed  them  be- 
cause he  meant  to  have  her.  They  knew  that,  so 
had  run.  Why  did  he  want  her?  He  said  that  he 
had  seen  her  before.  When?  Oh,  long  ago — when 
he  had  been  up  there  alone.  He  had  seen  her  face 
among  the  trees  for  a  moment.  They  had  been  hurt- 


THE  FAIRY  WIFE  183 

ing  her;  she  looked  at  him,  she  was  frightened,  but 
couldn't  cry  out — only  look  and  ask.  He  had  never 
forgotten  her;  her  looks  had  called  him  often,  and 
he  had  kept  his  eyes  wide  open.  Now,  when  he  had 
found  her  again,  he  determined  to  have  her.  And 
at  last,  he  said,  he  had  got  her.  He  had  had  to 
fight  for  her,  for  they  had  been  about  him  like  hell- 
cats and  had  jumped  at  him  as  if  they  would  tear 
him  to  pieces,  and  screamed  and  hissed  like  cats. 
But  when  he  had  got  her  in  his  arms  they  had  all 
screamed  together,  once — like  a  howling  wind — and 
had  flown  away. 

What  next?  Here  he  became  obstinate,  as  if  fore- 
seeing what  was  to  be.  What  next?  He  had  mar- 
ried her.  Married  her!  How  could  he  marry  a 
fairy  on  the  top  of  Knapp  Fell?  Was  there  a  church 
there,  by  chance?  Had  a  licence  been  handy?  "  Let 
me  see  her  lines,  Andrew,"  Mr.  Robson  had  said 
somewhat  sternly  in  conclusion.  His  answer  had 
been  to  lift  up  her  left  hand  and  show  the  thin  third 
finger.  It  carried  a  ring,  made  of  plaited  rush.  "I 
put  that  on  her,"  he  said,  "and  said  all  the  words 
over  her  out  of  the  book."  "And  you  think  you 
have  married  her,  Andrew?"  It  was  put  to  him  ex 
cathedra.  He  grew  very  red  and  was  silent;  pres- 
ently he  said,  "Well,  sir,  I  do  think  so.  But  she's 
not  my  wife  yet,  if  that's  what  you  mean."  The 


1 84  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

good  gentleman  felt  very  much  relieved.  It  was 
satisfactory  to  him  that  he  could  still  trust  his  wor- 
thy young  parishioner. 

Entirely  under  the  influence  of  Miranda  King,  he 
found  the  family  unanimous  for  a  real  wedding.  To 
that  there  were  two  objections  to  make.  He  could 
not  put  up  the  banns  of  a  person  without  a  name, 
and  would  not  marry  a  person  unbaptised.  Now,  to 
baptise  an  adult  something  more  than  sponsors  are 
requisite;  there  must  be  voluntary  assent  to  the 
doctrines  of  religion  by  the  postulant.  In  this  case, 
how  to  be  obtained?  He  saw  no  way,  since  it  was 
by  no  means  plain  to  him  that  the  girl  could  under- 
stand a  word  that  was  said.  He  left  the  family  to 
talk  it  over  among  themselves,  saying,  as  he  went 
out  of  the  door,  that  his  confidence  in  their  prin- 
ciples was  so  strong  that  he  was  sure  they  would 
sanction  no  step  which  would  lead  the  two  young 
people  away  from  the  church  door. 

In  the  morning  Miranda  King  came  to  him  with 
a  report  that  matters  had  been  arranged  and  only 
needed  his  sanction.  "I  can  trust  my  son,  and  see 
him  take  her  with  a  good  conscience,"  she  told  him. 
"She's  not  one  of  his  people,  but  she's  one  of  mine; 
and  what  I  have  done  she  can  do,  and  is  willing 
to  do." 

The   clergyman   was   puzzled.     "What   do  you 


THE  FAIRY  WIFE  185 

mean  by  that,  Mrs.  King?"  he  asked  her.  "What 
are  your  people  ?  How  do  they  differ  from  mine,  or 
your  husband's?" 

She  hesitated.  "Well,  sir,  in  this  way.  She 
hasn't  got  your  tongue,  nor  my  son's  tongue." 

"She  has  none  at  all,"  said  the  minister;  but 
Miranda  replied,  "She  can  talk  without  her  tongue." 

"Yes,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "but  I  cannot." 

"But  I  can,"  was  her  answer;  "she  can  talk  to 
me — and  will  talk  to  you;  but  not  yet.  She's  dumb 
for  a  season,  she's  struck  so.  My  son  will  give  her 
back  her  tongue — by-and-by." 

He  was  much  interested.  He  asked  Miranda  to 
tell  him  who  had  struck  her  dumb.  For  a  long  time 
she  would  not  answer.  "We  don't  name  him — it's 
not  lawful.  He  that  has  the  power — the  Master — I 
can  go  no  nearer."  He  urged  her  to  openness,  got 
her  at  last  to  mention  "The  King  of  the  Wood." 
The  King  of  the  Wood!  There  she  stuck,  and  noth- 
ing he  could  say  could  move  her  from  that  name, 
The  King  of  the  Wood. 

He  left  it  so,  knowing  his  people,  and  having 
other  things  to  ask  about.  What  tongue  or  speech 
had  the  respectable,  the  staid  Miranda  King  in  com- 
mon with  the  scared  waif?  To  that  she  answered 
that  she  could  not  tell  him;  but  that  it  was  certain 
they  could  understand  each  other.  How?  "By 


1 86  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

looks/'  she  said,  and  added  scornfully,  "she's  not 
the  kind  that  has  to  clatter  with  her  tongue  to  have 
speech  with  her  kindred." 

Miranda,  then,  was  a  kinswoman!  He  showed  his 
incredulity,  and  the  woman  flushed.  "See  here, 
Mr.  Robson,"  she  said,  "I  am  of  the  sea,  and  she  of 
the  fell,  but  we  are  the  same  nation.  We  are  not  of 
yours,  but  you  can  make  us  so.  Directly  I  saw  her 
I  knew  what  she  was;  and  so  did  she  know  me. 
How?  By  the  eyes  and  understanding.  I  felt  who 
she  was.  As  she  is  now  so  was  I  once.  As  I  am 
now  so  will  she  be.  I'll  answer  for  her;  I'm  here  to 
do  it.  When  once  I'd  followed  my  man  I  never 
looked  back;  no  more  will  she.  The  woman  obeys 
the  man — that's  the  law.  If  a  girl  of  your  people 
was  taken  with  a  man  of  mine  she'd  lose  her  speech 
and  forsake  her  home  and  ways.  That's  the  law  all 
the  world  over.  God  Almighty's  self,  if  He  were  a 
woman,  would  do  the  same.  He  couldn't  help  it. 
The  law  is  His;  but  He  made  it  so  sure  that  not 
Himself  could  break  it." 

"What  law  do  you  mean?"  she  was  asked.  She 
said,  "  The  law  of  life.  The  woman  follows  the  man." 

This  proposition  he  was  not  prepared  to  deny, 
and  the  end  of  it  was  that  Mr.  Robson  baptised  the 
girl,  taking  Miranda  for  godmother.  Mabilla  they 
called  her  by  her  sponsor's  desire,  "  Mabilla  By-the- 


THE  FAIRY  WIFE  187 

Wood,"  and  as  such  she  was  published  and  married. 
You  may  be  disposed  to  blame  him  for  lightness  of 
conscience,  but  I  take  leave  to  tell  you  that  he  had 
had  the  cure  of  souls  in  Dryhope  for  five-and-thirty 
years.  He  claimed  on  that  score  to  know  his  people. 
The  more  he  knew  of  them,  the  less  he  was  able  to 
question  the  lore  of  such  an  one  as  Miranda  King. 
And  he  might  remind  you  that  Mabilla  King  is  alive 
to  this  hour,  a  wife  and  mother  of  children.  That  is 
a  fact,  and  it  is  also  a  fact,  as  I  am  about  to  tell  you, 
that  she  had  a  hard  fight  to  win  such  peace. 

Married,  made  a  woman,  she  lost  her  haunted  look 
and  gained  some  colour  in  her  cheeks.  She  lost  her 
mortal  chill.  Her  clothing,  the  putting  up  of  her 
hair  made  some  difference,  but  loving  entreaty  all 
the  difference  in  the  world.  To  a  casual  glance  there 
was  nothing  but  refinement  to  distinguish  her  from 
her  neighbours,  to  a  closer  one  there  was  more  than 
that.  Her  eyes,  they  said,  had  the  far,  intent,  rapt 
gaze  of  a  wild  animal.  They  seemed  to  search  mi- 
nutely, reaching  beyond  our  power  of  vision,  to  find 
there  things  beyond  our  human  ken.  But  whereas 
the  things  which  she  looked  at,  invisible  to  us,  caused 
her  no  dismay,  those  within  our  range,  the  most  or- 
dinary and  commonplace,  filled  her  with  alarm.  Her 
eyes,  you  may  say,  communed  with  the  unseen,  and 
her  soul  followed  their  direction  and  dwelt  remote 


1 88  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

from  her  body.  She  was  easily  startled,  not  only  by 
what  she  saw  but  by  what  she  heard.  Nobody  was 
ever  more  sensitive  to  sound.  They  say  that  a 
piano-tuner  goes  not  by  sound,  but  by  the  vibrations 
of  the  wire,  which  he  is  able  to  test  without  counting. 
It  was  so  with  her.  She  seemed  to  feel  the  trembling 
of  the  circumambient  air,  and  to  know  by  its  greater 
or  less  intensity  that  something — and  very  often 
what  thing  in  particular — was  affecting  it.  All  her 
senses  were  preternaturally  acute — she  could  see  in- 
credible distances,  hear,  smell,  in  a  way  that  only 
wild  nature  can.  Added  to  these,  she  had  another 
sense,  whereby  she  could  see  what  was  hidden  from 
us  and  understand  what  we  could  not  even  perceive. 
One  could  guess  as  much,  on  occasions,  by  the  ab- 
sorbed intensity  of  her  gaze.  But  when  she  was 
with  her  husband  (which  was  whenever  he  would 
allow  it)  she  had  no  eyes,  ears,  senses  or  thoughts  for 
any  other  living  thing,  seen  or  unseen.  She  fol- 
lowed him  about  like  a  dog,  and  when  that  might 
not  be  her  eyes  followed  him.  Sometimes,  when  he 
was  afield  with  his  sheep,  they  saw  her  come  out  of 
the  cottage  and  slink  up  the  hedgerow  to  the  felTs 
foot.  She  would  climb  the  brae,  search  him  out, 
and  then  crouch  down  and  sit  watching  him,  never 
taking  her  eyes  off  him.  When  he  was  at  home  her 
favourite  place  was  at  his  feet.  She  would  sit  hud- 


THE  FAIRY  WIFE  189 

died  there  for  hours,  and  his  hand  would  fall  upon 
her  hair  or  rest  on  her  shoulder;  and  you  could  see 
the  pleasure  thrilling  her,  raying  out  from  her — just 
as  you  can  see,  as  well  as  hear,  a  cat  purring  by  the 
fire.  He  used  to  whisper  in  her  ear  as  if  she  was  a 
child:  like  a  child  she  used  to  listen  and  wonder. 
Whether  she  understood  him  or  no  it  was  sometimes 
the  only  way  of  soothing  her.  Her  trembling  stopped 
at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  and  her  eyes  left  off  staring 
and  showed  the  glow  of  peace.  For  whole  long  even- 
ings they  sat  close  together,  his  hand  upon  her  hair 
and  his  low  voice  murmuring  in  her  ear. 

This  much  the  neighbours  report  and  the  clergy- 
man confirms,  as  also  that  all  went  well  with  the 
young  couple  for  the  better  part  of  two  years.  The 
girl  grew  swiftly  towards  womanhood,  became  sleek 
and  well-liking;  had  a  glow  and  a  promise  of  ripe- 
ness which  bid  fair  to  be  redeemed.  A  few  omens, 
however,  remained,  disquieting  when  those  who  loved 
her  thought  of  them.  One  was  that  she  got  no 
human  speech,  though  she  understood  everything 
that  was  said  to  her;  another  that  she  showed  no 
signs  of  motherhood;  a  third  that  Bessie  Prawle 
could  not  abide  her.  She  alone  of  all  the  little  com- 
munity avoided  the  King  household,  and  scowled 
whensoever  she  happened  to  cross  the  path  of  this 
gentle  outland  girl.  Jealousy  was  presumed  the 


190  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

cause;  but  I  think  there  was  more  in  it  than 
that.  I  think  that  Bessie  Prawle  believed  her  to 
be  a  witch. 

Ill 

To  eyes  prepared  for  coming  disaster  things  small 
in  themselves  loom  out  of  a  clear  sky  portentous. 
Such  eyes  had  not  young  Andrew  King  the  bride- 
groom, a  youth  made  man  by  love,  secure  in  his 
treasure  and  confident  in  his  power  of  keeping  what 
his  confidence  had  won.  Such  eyes  may  or  may  not 
have  had  Mabilla,  though  hers  seemed  to  be  centred 
in  her  husband,  where  he  was  or  where  he  might  be. 
George  King  was  old  and  looked  on  nothing  but  his 
sheep,  or  the  weather  as  it  might  affect  his  sheep. 
Miranda  King,  the  self-contained,  stoic  woman,  had 
schooled  her  eyes  to  see  her  common  duties.  What- 
ever else  she  may  have  seen  she  kept  within  the  door 
of  her  shut  lips.  She  may  have  known  what  was 
coming,  she  must  have  known  that  whatever  came 
had  to  come.  Bessie  Prawle,  however,  with  hatred, 
bitter  fear  and  jealousy  to  sharpen  her,  saw  much. 

Bessie  Prawle  was  a  handsome,  red-haired  girl, 
deep  in  the  breast,  full-eyed  and  of  great  colour. 
Her  strength  was  remarkable.  She  could  lift  a 
heifer  into  a  cart,  and  had  once,  being  dared  to  it, 
carried  Andrew  King  up  the  brae  in  her  arms.  The 


THE  FAIRY  WIFE  191 

young  man,  she  supposed,  owed  her  a  grudge  for 
that;  she  believed  herself  unforgiven,  and  saw  in 
this  sudden  marriage  of  his  a  long-meditated  act  of 
revenge.  By  that  in  her  eyes  (and  as  she  thought, 
in  the  eyes  of  all  Dryhope)  he  had  ill-requited  her, 
put  her  to  unthinkable  shame.  She  saw  herself 
with  her  favours  of  person  and  power  passed  over 
for  a  nameless,  haunted,  dumb  thing,  a  stray  from 
some  other  world  into  a  world  of  men,  women,  and 
the  children  they  rear  to  follow  them.  She  scorned 
Mabilla  for  flinching  so  much,  she  scorned  her  for 
not  flinching  more.  That  Mabilla  could  be  desirable 
to  Andrew  King  made  her  scoff;  that  Andrew  King 
should  not  know  her  dangerous  kept  her  awake  at 
night. 

For  the  world  seemed  to  her  a  fearful  place  since 
Mabilla  had  been  brought  into  it.  There  were 
signs  everywhere.  That  summer  it  thundered  out 
of  a  clear  sky.  Once  in  the  early  morning  she  had 
seen  a  bright  light  above  the  sun — a  mock  sun  which 
shone  more  fiercely  than  a  fire  in  daylight.  She 
heard  wild  voices  singing;  on  still  days  she  saw  the 
trees  in  Knapp  Forest  bent  to  a  furious  wind.  When 
Mabilla  crept  up  the  fell  on  noiseless  feet  to  spy  for 
Andrew  King,  Bessie  Prawle  heard  the  bents  hiss 
and  crackle  under  her,  as  if  she  set  them  afire. 

Next  summer,  too,  there  were  portents.    There 


192  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

was  a  great  drought,  so  great  that  Dryhope  burn  ran 
dry,  and  water  had  to  be  fetched  from  a  distance 
for  the  sheep.  There  were  heather  fires  in  many 
places;  smut  got  into  the  oats,  and  a  plague  of  cater- 
pillars attacked  the  trees  so  that  in  July  they  were 
leafless,  and  there  was  no  shade.  There  was  no  pas- 
ture for  the  kine,  which  grew  lean  and  languid.  Their 
bones  stuck  out  through  their  skin;  they  moaned  as 
they  lay  on  the  parched  earth,  and  had  not  strength 
enough  to  swish  at  the  clouds  of  flies.  They  had 
sores  upon  them,  which  festered  and  spread.  If  Ma- 
billa,  the  nameless  wife,  was  not  responsible  for  this, 
who  could  be?  Perhaps  Heaven  was  offended  with 
Dryhope  on  account  of  Andrew  King's  impiety. 
Bessie  believed  that  Mabilla  was  a  witch. 

She  followed  the  girl  about,  spying  on  everything 
she  did.  Once,  at  least,  she  came  upon  her  lying  in 
the  heather.  She  was  plaiting  rushes  together  into 
a  belt,  and  Bessie  thought  she  was  weaving  a  spell 
and  sprang  upon  her.  The  girl  cowered,  very  white, 
and  Bessie  Prawle,  her  heart  on  fire,  gave  tongue  to 
all  her  bitter  thoughts.  The  witch-wife,  fairy-wife, 
child  or  whatever  she  was  seemed  to  wither  as  a 
flower  in  a  hot  wind.  Bessie  Prawle  towered  above 
her  in  her  strength,  and  gained  invective  with  every 
fierce  breath  she  took.  Her  blue  eyes  burned,  her 
bosom  heaved  like  the  sea;  her  arm  bared  to  the 


THE  FAIRY  WIFE  193 

shoulder  could  have  struck  a  man  down.  Yet  in  the 
midst  of  her  frenzied  speech,  in  full  flow,  she  faltered. 
Her  fists  unclenched  themselves,  her  arm  dropped 
nerveless,  her  eyes  sought  the  ground.  Andrew  King, 
pale  with  rage,  sterner  than  she  had  ever  seen  him, 
stood  before  her. 

He  looked  at  her  with  deadly  calm. 

"Be  out  of  this,"  he  said;  ayou  degrade  yourself. 
Never  let  me  see  you  again."  Before  she  had  shrunk 
away  he  had  stooped  to  the  huddled  creature  at  his 
feet,  had  covered  her  with  his  arms  and  was  whis- 
pering urgent  comfort  in  her  ear,  caressing  her  with 
voice  and  hands.  Bessie  Prawle  could  not  show  her- 
self to  the  neighbours  for  the  rest  of  the  summer  and 
early  autumn.  She  became  a  solitary;  the  neigh- 
bours said  that  she  was  in  a  decline. 

The  drought,  with  all  the  troubles  it  entailed  of 
plague,  pestilence  and  famine,  continued  through 
August  and  September.  It  did  not  really  break  till 
All-Hallow's,  and  then,  indeed,  it  did. 

The  day  had  been  overcast,  with  a  sky  of  a  cop- 
pery tinge,  and  intensely  dry  heat;  a  chance  puff  of 
wind  smote  one  in  the  face,  hot  as  the  breath  of  a 
man  in  fever.  The  sheep  panted  on  the  ground,  their 
dry  tongues  far  out  of  their  mouths;  the  beasts  lay 
as  if  dead,  and  flies  settled  upon  them  in  clouds.  All 
the  land  was  of  one  glaring  brown,  where  the  bents 


194  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

were  dry  straw,  and  the  heather  first  burnt  and 
then  bleached  pallid  by  the  sun.  The  distance  was 
blurred  in  a  reddish  lurid  haze;  Knapp  Fell  and  its 
forest  were  hidden. 

Mabilla,  the  dumb  girl,  had  been  restless  all  day, 
following  Andrew  about  like  a  shadow.  The  heat 
had  made  him  irritable;  more  than  once  he  had  told 
her  to  go  home  and  she  had  obeyed  him  for  the  time, 
but  had  always  come  back.  Her  looks  roamed  wide; 
she  seemed  always  listening;  sometimes  it  was  clear 
that  she  heard  something — f or  she  panted  and  moved 
her  lips.  There  was  deep  trouble  in  her  eyes  too; 
she  seemed  full  of  fear.  At  almost  any  other  time 
her  husband  would  have  noticed  it  and  comforted 
her.  But  his  nerves,  fretted  by  the  long  scorching 
summer,  were  on  this  day  of  fire  stretched  to  the 
cracking  point.  He  saw  nothing,  and  felt  nothing, 
but  his  own  discomfort. 

Out  on  the  parched  fellside  Bessie  Prawle  sat  like 
a  bird  of  omen  and  gloomed  at  the  wrath  to  come. 

Toward  dusk  a  wind  came  moaning  down  the 
valley,  raising  little  spires  of  dust.  It  came  now 
down,  now  up.  Sometimes  two  currents  met  each 
other  and  made  momentary  riot.  But  farm-work 
has  to  get  itself  done  through  fair  or  foul.  It  grew 
dark,  the  sheep  were  folded  and  fed,  the  cattle  were 
got  in,  and  the  family  sat  together  in  the  kitchen, 


THE  FAIRY  WIFE  195 

silent,  preoccupied,  the  men  oppressed  and  anxious 
over  they  knew  not  what.  As  for  those  two  aliens, 
Miranda  King  and  Mabilla  By-the-Wood,  whatever 
they  knew,  one  of  them  made  no  sign  at  all,  and  the 
other,  though  she  was  white,  though  she  shivered  and 
peered  about,  had  no  means  of  voicing  her  thought. 

They  had  their  tea  and  settled  to  their  evening 
tasks.  The  old  shepherd  dozed  over  his  pipe,  Mi- 
randa knitted  fast,  Mabilla  stared  out  of  the  window 
into  the  dark,  twisting  her  hands,  and  Andrew,  with 
one  of  his  hands  upon  her  shoulder,  patted  her  gently, 
as  if  to  soothe  her.  She  gave  him  a  grateful  look 
more  than  once,  but  did  not  cease  to  shiver.  Nobody 
spoke,  and  suddenly  in  the  silence  Mabilla  gasped 
and  began  to  tremble.  Then  the  dog  growled  under 
the  table.  All  looked  up  and  about  them. 

A  scattering,  pattering  sound  lashed  at  the  win- 
dow. Andrew  then  started  up.  "Rain!"  he  said; 
"that's  what  we're  waiting  for,"  and  made  to  go  to 
the  door.  Miranda  his  mother,  and  Mabilla  his 
young  wife,  caught  him  by  the  frock  and  held  him 
back.  The  dog,  staring  into  the  window-pane,  bris- 
tling and  glaring,  continued  to  growl.  They  waited 
in  silence,  but  with  beating  hearts. 

A  loud  knock  sounded  suddenly  on  the  door — a 
dull,  heavy  blow,  as  if  one  had  pounded  it  with  a 
tree-stump.  The  dog  burst  into  a  panic  of  barking, 


196  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

flew  to  the  door  and  sniffed  at  the  threshold.  He 
whined  and  scratched  frantically  with  his  forepaws. 
The  wind  began  to  blow,  coming  quite  suddenly 
down,  solid  upon  the  wall  of  the  house,  shaking  it 
upon  its  foundations.  George  King  was  now  upon 
his  feet.  "Good  God  Almighty!"  he  said,  "this  is 
the  end  of  the  world!" 

The  blast  was  not  long-lived.  It  fell  to  a  murmur. 
Andrew  King,  now  at  the  window,  could  see  nothing 
of  the  rain.  There  were  no  drops  upon  the  glass,  nor 
sound  upon  the  sycamores  outside.  But  even  while 
he  looked,  and  his  grandfather,  all  his  senses  alert, 
waited  for  what  was  to  come,  and  the  two  pale  women 
clung  together,  knowing  what  was  to  come,  there 
grew  gradually  another  sound  which,  because  it  was 
familiar,  brought  their  terrors  sharply  to  a  point. 

It  was  the  sound  of  sheep  in  a  flock  running.  It 
came  from  afar  and  grew  in  volume  and  distinctness; 
the  innumerable  small  thudding  of  sharp  hoofs,  the 
rustling  of  woolly  bodies,  the  volleying  of  short 
breath,  and  that  indefinable  sense  of  bustle  which 
massed  things  produce,  passing  swiftly. 

The  sheep  came  on,  panic-driven,  voiceless  in  their 
fear,  but  speaking  aloud  in  the  wildly  clanging  bells; 
they  swept  by  the  door  of  the  house  with  a  sound  like 
the  rush  of  water;  they  disappeared  in  that  flash  of 
sound,  Old  King  cried,  "Man,  'tis  the  sheep!"  and 


THE  FAIRY  WIFE  197 

flew  for  his  staff  and  shoes.  Miranda  followed  to 
fetch  them;  but  Andrew  went  to  the  door  as  he  was, 
shaking  off  his  clinging  wife,  unlatched  it  and  let 
in  a  gale  of  wind.  The  dog  shot  out  like  a  flame  of 
fire  and  was  gone. 

It  was  as  if  the  wind  which  was  driving  the  sheep 
was  going  to  scour  the  house.  It  came  madly,  with 
indescribable  force;  it  rushed  into  the  house,  blew 
the  window-curtains  toward  the  middle  of  the  room, 
drove  the  fire  outward  and  set  the  ashes  whirling 
like  snow  all  about.  Andrew  King  staggered  before 
it  a  moment,  then  put  his  head  down  and  beat  his 
way  out.  Mabilla  shuddering  shrank  backward  to 
the  fireplace  and  crouched  there,  waiting.  Old  King 
came  out  booted  and  cloaked,  his  staff  in  his  hand, 
battled  to  the  door  and  was  swept  up  the  brae 
upon  the  gale.  Miranda  did  not  appear;  so  Mabilla, 
white  and  rigid,  was  alone  in  the  whirling  room. 

Creeping  to  her  through  the  open  door,  holding  to 
whatever  solid  thing  she  could  come  by,  entered 
Bessie  Prawle.  In  all  that  turmoil  and  chill  terror 
she  alone  was  hot.  Her  grudge  was  burning  in  her. 
She  could  have  killed  Mabilla  with  her  eyes. 

But  she  did  not,  for  Mabilla  was  in  the  hands  of 
greater  and  stronger  powers.  Before  Bessie  Prawle's 
shocked  eyes  she  was  seen  rigid  and  awake.  She  was 
seen  to  cower  as  to  some  threatening  shape,  then  to 


1 98  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

stiffen,  to  mutter  with  her  dry  lips,  and  to  grow  still, 
to  stare  with  her  wide  eyes,  and  then  to  see  nothing. 
A  glaze  swam  over  her  eyes;  they  were  open,  but  as 
the  eyes  of  the  dead. 

Bessie  Prawle,  horror-struck,  stretched  out  her 
arms  to  give  her  shelter.  All  her  honest  humanity 
was  reborn  in  her  in  this  dreadful  hour.  "  My  poor 
lass,  I'll  not  harm  ye,"  she  was  saying;  but  Mabilla 
had  begun  to  move.  She  moved  as  a  sleep-walker, 
seeing  but  not  seeing  her  way;  she  moved  as  one 
who  must,  not  as  one  who  would.  She  went  slowly 
as  if  drawn  to  the  open  door.  Bessie  never  tried  to 
stop  her;  she  could  not  though  she  would.  Slowly 
as  if  drawn  she  went  to  the  door,  staring  before  her, 
pale  as  a  cloth,  rigid  as  a  frozen  thing.  At  the  thresh- 
old she  swayed  for  a  moment  in  the  power  of  the 
storm;  then  she  was  sucked  out  like  a  dried  leaf  and 
was  no  more  seen.  Overhead,  all  about  the  eaves  of 
the  house  the  great  wind  shrilled  mockery  and  de- 
spairing mirth.  The  fire  leapt  toward  the  middle  of 
the  room  and  fell  back  so  much  white  ash.  Bessie 
Prawle  plumped  down  to  her  knees,  huddled,  and 
prayed. 

Andrew  King,  coming  back,  found  her  there  at  it, 
alone.  His  eyes  swept  the  room.  "Mabilla!  Bessie 
Prawle,  where  is  Mabilla?"  The  girl  huddled  and 
prayed  on.  He  took  her  by  the  shoulder  and  shook 


THE  FAIRY  WIFE  199 

her  to  and  fro.  "You  foul  wench,  you  piece,  this 
is  your  doing."  Bessie  sobbed  her  denials,  but  he 
would  not  hear  her.  Snatching  up  a  staff,  he  turned, 
threw  her  down  in  his  fury.  He  left  the  house  and 
followed  the  wind. 

The  wind  caught  him  the  moment  he  was  outside, 
and  swept  him  onward  whether  he  would  or  not. 
He  ran  down  the  bank  of  the  beck  which  seemed  to 
be  racing  him  for  a  prize,  leaping  and  thundering 
level  with  its  banks;  before  he  had  time  to  wonder 
whether  the  bridge  still  stood  he  was  up  with  it,  over 
it  and  on  the  edge  of  the  brae.  Up  the  moorland 
road  he  went,  carried  rather  than  running,  and  where 
it  loses  itself  in  the  first  enclosure,  being  hard  up 
against  the  wall,  over  he  vaulted,  across  the  field  and 
over  the  further  wall.  Out  then  upon  the  open  fell, 
where  the  heather  makes  great  cushions,  and  be- 
tween all  of  them  are  bogs  or  stones,  he  was  swept  by 
the  wind.  It  shrieked  about  him  and  carried  him 
up  and  over  as  if  he  were  a  leaf  of  autumn.  Beyond 
that  was  dangerous  ground,  but  there  was  no  stop- 
ping; he  was  caught  in  the  flood  of  the  gale.  He 
knew  very  well,  however,  whither  it  was  carrying 
him:  to  Knapp,  that  place  of  dread,  whither  he  was 
now  sure  Mabilla  had  been  carried,  resumed  by  her 
own  people.  There  was  no  drawing  back,  there  was  no 
time  for  prayer.  All  he  could  do  was  to  keep  his  feet. 


200  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

He  was  carried  down  the  Dryhope  fell,  he  said, 
into  the  next  valley,  swept  somehow  over  the  roar- 
ing beck  in  the  bottom,  and  up  the  rugged  side  of 
Knapp,  where  the  peat-hags  are  as  high  as  rocks,  and 
presently  knew  without  the  help  of  his  eyes  that  he 
was  nearing  the  forest.  He  heard  the  swishing  of 
the  trees,  the  cracking  of  the  boughs,  the  sharp  crack 
and  crash  which  told  of  some  limb  torn  off  and  sent 
to  ruin;  and  he  knew  also  by  some  hush  not  far  off 
that  the  wind,  great  and  furious  as  it  was,  was  to  be 
quieted  within  that  awful  place.  It  was  so.  He 
stood  panting  upon  the  edge  of  the  wood,  out  of  the 
wind,  which  roared  away  overhead.  He  twittered 
with  his  foolish  lips,  not  knowing  what  on  earth  to 
do,  nor  daring  to  do  anything  had  he  known  it;  but 
all  the  prayers  he  had  ever  learned  were  driven  clean 
out  of  his  head. 

He  could  dimly  make  out  the  tree-trunks  imme- 
diately before  him,  low  bushes,  shelves  of  bracken- 
fern;  he  could  pierce  somewhat  into  the  gloom  be- 
yond and  see  the  solemn  trees  ranked  in  their  order, 
and  above  them  a  great  soft  blackness  rent  here  and 
there  to  show  the  sky.  The  volleying  of  the  storm 
sounded  like  the  sea  heard  afar  off:  it  was  so  remote 
and  steady  a  noise  that  lesser  sounds  were  discernible 
— the  rustlings,  squeakings,  and  snappings  of  small 
creatures  moving  over  small  undergrowth.  Every 


THE  FAIRY  WIFE  201 

one  of  these  sent  his  heart  leaping  to  his  mouth;  but 
all  his  fears  were  to  be  swallowed  up  in  amazement, 
for  as  he  stood  there  distracted,  without  warning, 
without  shock,  there  stood  one  by  him,  within  touch- 
ing distance,  a  child,  as  he  judged  it,  with  loose  hair 
and  bright  eyes,  prying  into  his  face,  smiling  at  him 
and  inviting  him  to  come  on. 

"Who  in  God's  name ?  "  cried  Andrew  King; 

but  the  child  plucked  him  by  the  coat  and  tried  to 
draw  him  into  the  wood. 

I  understand  that  he  did  not  hesitate.  If  he  had 
forgotten  his  gods  he  had  not  forgotten  his  fairy-wife. 
I  suppose,  too,  that  he  knew  where  to  look  for  her; 
he  may  have  supposed  that  she  had  been  resumed 
into  her  first  state.  At  any  rate,  he  made  his  way 
into  the  forest  by  guess-work,  aided  by  reminiscence. 
I  believe  he  was  accustomed  to  aver  that  he  "knew 
where  she  was  very  well,"  and  that  he  took  a  straight 
line  to  her.  I  have  seen  Knapp  Forest  and  doubt  it. 
He  did,  however,  find  himself  in  the  dark  spaces  of 
the  wood  and  there,  sure  enough,  he  did  also  see  the 
women  with  whom  his  Mabilla  had  once  been  co- 
mate.  They  came  about  him,  he  said,  like  angry 
cats,  hissing  and  shooting  out  their  lips.  They  did 
not  touch  him;  but  if  eyes  and  white  hateful  faces 
could  have  killed  him,  dead  he  had  been  then  and 
there. 


202  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

He  called  upon  God  and  Christ  and  made  a  way 
through  them.  His  senses  had  told  him  where  Ma- 
billa  was.  He  found  her  pale  and  trembling  in  an 
aisle  of  the  trees.  She  leaned  against  a  tall  tree, 
perfectly  rigid,  "as  cold  as  a  stone,"  staring  across 
him  with  frozen  eyes,  her  mouth  open  like  a  round 
O.  He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  holding  her  close 
turned  and  defied  the  "witches" — so  he  called  them 
in  his  wrath.  He  dared  them  in  the  name  of  God  to 
touch  him  or  his  wife,  and  as  he  did  so  he  says  that 
he  felt  the  chill  grow  upon  him.  It  took  him,  he  said, 
in  the  legs  and  ran  up  his  body.  It  stiffened  his  arms 
till  they  felt  as  if  they  must  snap  under  the  strain; 
it  caught  him  in  the  neck  and  fixed  it.  He  felt  his 
eyes  grow  stiff  and  hard;  he  felt  himself  sway. 
"Then,"  he  said,  "the  dark  swam  over  me,  the  dark 
and  the  bitter  cold,  and  I  knew  nothing  more." 
Questioned  as  he  was  by  Mr.  Robson  and  his  friends, 
he  declared  that  it  was  at  the  name  of  God  the  cold 
got  him  first.  He  saw  the  women  hushed  and  scared, 
and  at  the  same  time  one  of  them  looked  ov^er  her 
shoulder,  as  if  somebody  was  coming.  Had  he  called 
in  the  King  of  the  Wood?  That  is  what  he  himself 
thought.  It  was  the  King  of  the  Wood  who  had 
come  in  quest  of  Mabilla,  had  pulled  her  out  of  the 
cottage  in  Dryhope  and  frozen  her  in  the  forest.  It 
was  he,  no  doubt,  said  Andrew  King,  who  had  come 


THE  FAIRY  WIFE  203 

to  defy  the  Christian  and  his  God.  I  detect  here 
the  inspiration  of  his  mother  Miranda,  the  strange 
sea-woman  who  knew  Mabilla  without  mortal  knowl- 
edge and  spoke  to  her  in  no  mortal  speech.  But  the 
sequel  to  the  tale  is  a  strange  one. 

Andrew  King  awoke  to  find  himself  in  Mabilla's 
arms,  to  hear  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  Mabilla  call 
him  softly  by  his  name.  "Andrew,  my  husband," 
she  called  him,  and  when  he  opened  his  eyes  in  won- 
der to  hear  her  she  said,  "Andrew,  take  me  home 
now.  It  is  all  over/'  or  words  to  that  effect.  They 
went  along  the  forest  and  up  and  down  the  fells  to- 
gether. The  wind  had  dropped,  the  stars  shone. 
And  together  they  took  up  their  life  where  they  had 
dropped  it,  with  one  significant  omission  in  its  cir- 
cumstance. Bessie  Prawle  had  disappeared  from 
Dryhope.  She  had  followed  him  up  the  fell  on  the 
night  of  the  storm,  but  she  came  not  back.  And  they 
say  that  she  never  did.  Nothing  was  found  of  her 
body,  though  search  was  made;  but  a  comb  she  used 
to  wear  was  picked  up,  they  say,  by  the  tarn  on 
Limmer  Fell,  an  imitation  tortoise-shell  comb  which 
used  to  hold  up  her  hair.  Miranda  King,  who  knew 
more  than  she  would  ever  tell,  had  a  shrewd  suspicion 
of  the  truth  of  the  case.  But  Andrew  King  knew 
nothing,  and  I  daresay  cared  very  little.  He  had 
his  wood-wife,  and  she  had  her  voice;  and  be- 


204  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

tween  them,  I  believe,  they  had  a  child  within  the 
year. 

I  ought  to  add  that  I  have,  with  these  eyes,  seen 
Mabilla  By-the-Wood  who  became  Mabilla  King. 
When  I  went  from  Dryhopedale  to  Knapp  Forest 
she  stood  at  the  farmhouse  door  with  a  child  in  her 
arms.  Two  others  were  tumbling  about  in  the  croft. 
She  was  a  pretty,  serious  girl — for  she  looked  quite 
a  girl — with  a  round  face  and  large  greyish-blue  eyes. 
She  had  a  pink  cotton  dress  on,  and  a  good  figure 
beneath  it.  She  was  pale,  but  looked  healthy  and 
strong.  Not  a  tall  girl.  I  asked  her  the  best  way  to 
Knapp  Forest  and  she  came  out  to  the  gate  to  point 
it  to  me.  She  talked  simply,  with  a  northern  accent, 
and  might  have  been  the  child  of  generations  of  bor- 
derers. She  pointed  me  the  very  track  by  which 
Andrew  King  must  have  brought  her  home,  by  which 
the  King  of  the  Wood  swept  her  out  on  the  wings  of 
his  wrath;  she  named  the  tarn  where  once  she  dwelt 
as  the  spirit  of  a  tree.  All  this  without  a  flush,  a 
tremor  or  a  sign  in  her  blue  eyes  that  she  had  ever 
known  the  place.  But  these  people  are  close,  and 
seldom  betray  all  that  they  know  or  think. 


OREADS 

I  END  this  little  book  with  an  experience  of  my  own, 
or  rather  a  series  of  experiences,  and  will  leave  con- 
clusions to  a  final  chapter.  I  don't  say  that  I  have 
no  others  which  could  have  found  a  place — indeed, 
there  are  many  others.  But  they  were  fitful,  mo- 
mentary things,  unaccountable  and  unrelated  to  each 
other,  without  the  main  clue  which  in  itself  is  too 
intimate  a  thing  to  be  revealed  just  yet,  and  I  am 
afraid  of  compiling  a  catalogue.  I  have  travelled 
far  and  wide  across  Europe  in  my  day,  not  without 
spiritual  experiences.  If  at  some  future  time  these 
co-ordinate  into  a  body  of  doctrine  I  will  take  care  to 
clothe  that  body  in  the  vesture  of  print  and  paper. 
Here,  meantime,  is  something  of  recent  years. 

My  house  at  Broad  Chalke  stands  in  a  narrow 
valley,  which  a  little  stream  waters  more  than  enough. 
This  valley  is  barely  a  mile  broad  throughout  its 
length,  and  in  my  village  scarcely  half  so  much.  I 
can  be  in  the  hills  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  in 
five-and-twenty  minutes  find  myself  deeply  involved, 

out  of  sight  of  man  or  his  contrivances.    The  downs 

205 


206  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

in  South  Wilts  are  nowhere  lofty,  and  have  none  of 
the  abrupt  grandeur  of  those  which  guard  the  Sussex 
coast  and  weald;  but  they  are  of  much  larger  extent, 
broader,  longer,  more  untrodden,  made  much  more 
intricate  by  the  numberless  creeks  and  friths  which, 
through  some  dim  cycle  of  antiquity,  the  sea,  ebbing 
gradually  to  the  great  Avon  delta,  must  have  graved. 
Beautiful,  with  quiet  and  a  solemn  peacefulness  of 
their  own,  they  always  are.  They  endure  enor- 
mously, in  scBcula  s&culorum.  Storms  drive  over 
them,  mists  and  rains  blot  them  out;  rarely  they  are 
shrouded  in  a  fleece  of  snow.  In  spring  the  clouds 
and  the  light  hold  races  up  their  flanks;  in  summer 
they  seem  to  drowse  like  weary  monsters  in  the  still 
and  fervent  heat.  They  are  never  profoundly  af- 
fected by  such  changes  of  Nature's  face;  grow  not 
awful,  sharing  her  wrath,  nor  dangerously  fair  when 
she  woos  them  with  kisses  to  love.  They  are  the 
quiet  and  sober  spokesmen  of  earth,  clad  in  Quaker 
greys  and  drabs.  They  show  no  crimson  at  sunset, 
no  gilded  livery  at  dawn.  The  grey  deepens  to  cool 
purple,  the  brown  glows  to  russet  at  such  festal 
times.  Early  in  the  spring  they  may  drape  them- 
selves in  tender  green,  or  show  their  sides  dappled 
with  the  white  of  sheep.  Flowers  they  bear,  but 
secretly;  little  curious  orchids,  bodied  like  bees,  eyed 
like  spiders,  flecked  with  the  blood-drops  of  Attis  or 


OREADS  207 

Adonis  or  some  murdered  shepherd-boy;  pale  sca- 
bious, pale  cowslip,  thyme  that  breathes  sharp  fra- 
grance, "aromatic  pain,"  as  you  crush  it,  potentilla, 
lady's  slipper,  cloudy  blue  milkwort,  toad-flax  that 
shows  silver  to  the  wind.  Such  as  these  they  flaunt 
not,  but  wear  for  choiceness.  You  would  not  see 
them  unless  you  knew  them  there.  For  denizens 
they  have  the  hare,  the  fox,  and  the  badger.  Red- 
wings, wheatears,  peewits,  and  airy  kestrels  are  the 
people  of  their  skies. 

I  love  above  all  the  solitude  they  keep,  and  to  feel 
the  pulsing  of  the  untenanted  air.  The  shepherd 
and  his  sheep,  the  limping  hare,  lagging  fox,  wheeling, 
wailing  plover;  such  will  be  your  company:  you 
may  dip  deeply  into  valleys  where  no  others  will  be 
by,  hear  the  sound  of  your  own  heart,  or  the  shrill- 
ing of  the  wind  in  the  upland  bents.  I  have  heard, 
indeed,  half  a  mile  above  me,  the  singing  of  the  great 
harps  of  wire  which  stretch  from  Sarum  to  Shaftes- 
bury  along  the  highest  ridge;  but  such  a  music  is 
no  disturbance  of  the  peace;  rather,  it  assures  you 
of  solitude,  for  you  wouldn't  hear  it  were  you  not 
ensphered  with  it  alone.  There's  a  valley  in  par- 
ticular, lying  just  under  Chesilbury,  where  I  choose 
most  to  be.  Chesilbury,  a  huge  grass  encampment, 
three  hundred  yards  square,  with  fosse  and  rampart 
still  sharp,  with  a  dozen  gateways  and  three  mist- 


208  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

pools  within  its  ambit,  which  stands  upon  the  ancient 
road  and  dominates  two  valleys.  Below  that,  com- 
ing up  from  the  south,  is  my  charmed  valley.  There, 
I  know,  the  beings  whom  I  call  Oreads,  for  want  of 
a  homelier  word,  haunt  and  are  to  be  seen  now  and 
then.  I  know,  because  I  myself  have  seen  them. 

I  must  describe  this  Oread- Valley  more  particu- 
larly, I  believe.  East  and  west,  above  it,  runs  the 
old  road  we  call  the  Race-Plain — the  highest  ground 
hereabouts,  rising  from  Harnham  by  Salisbury  to 
end  at  Shaftesbury  in  Dorset.  North  of  this  ridge  is 
Chesilbury  Camp;  immediately  south  of  that  is  the 
valley.  Here  the  falling  flood  as  it  drained  away 
must  have  sucked  the  soil  out  sharply  at  two  neigh- 
bouring points,  for  this  valley  has  two  heads,  and 
between  them  stands  a  grass-grown  bluff.  The  west- 
ern vale-head  is  quite  round  but  very  steep.  It  faces 
due  south  and  has  been  found  grateful  by  thorns, 
elders,  bracken  and  even  heather.  But  the  eastern 
head  is  sharper,  begins  almost  in  a  point.  From  that 
it  sweeps  out  in  a  huge  demi-lune  of  cliff,  the  outer 
cord  being  the  east,  the  inner  hugging  the  bluff. 
Facing  north  from  the  valley,  facing  these  two  heads, 
you  see  the  eastern  of  them  like  a  great  amphitheatre, 
its  steep  embayed  side  so  smooth  as  to  seem  the  work 
of  men's  hands.  It  is  too  steep  for  turf;  it  is  grey 
with  marl,  and  patchy  where  scree  of  flint  and  chalk 


OREADS  209 

has  run  and  found  a  lodgment.  Ice-worn  it  may  be, 
man-wrought  it  is  not.  No  red-deer  picks  have  been 
at  work  there,  no  bright-eyed,  scrambling  hordes 
have  toiled  their  shifts  or  left  traces  through  the 
centuries  as  at  the  DeviPs  Dyke.  This  noble  arena  is 
Nature's.  Here  I  saw  her  people  more  than  once. 
And  the  first  sign  I  had  of  them  was  this. 


I  was  here  alone  one  summer's  night;  a  night  of 
stars,  but  without  a  moon.  I  lay  within  the  scrub 
of  the  western  valley-head  and  looked  south.  I  could 
just  see  the  profile  of  the  enfolding  hills,  but  only  just; 
could  guess  that  in  the  soft  blackness  below  me,  fill- 
ing up  the  foreground  like  a  lake,  the  valley  was  there 
indeed;  realise  that  if  I  stepped  down,  perhaps  thirty 
yards  or  so,  my  feet  would  sink  into  the  pile  of  the 
turf-carpet,  and  feel  the  sharp  benediction  of  the  dew. 
About  me  surged  and  beat  an  enormous  silence.  The 
only  sound  at  all — and  that  was  fitful — came  from 
a  fern-owl  which,  from  a  thorn-bush  above  me, 
churred  softly  and  at  intervals  his  content  with  the 
night. 

The  stars  were  myriad,  but  sky-marks  shone  out; 
the  Bear,  the  Belt,  the  Chair,  the  dancing  sister 
Pleiades.  The  Galaxy  was  like  a  snow-cloud;  star- 


210  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

tlingly,  by  one,  by  two,  meteors  flared  a  short  course 
and  died.  You  never  feel  lonely  when  you  have  the 
stars;  yet  they  do  not  pry  upon  you.  You  can  hide 
nothing  from  them,  and  need  not  seek  to  hide.  If 
they  have  foreknowledge,  they  nurse  no  after- 
thought. 

Now,  to-night,  as  I  looked  and  wondered  at  their 
beauty,  I  became  aware  of  a  phenomenon  untold 
before.  Yet  so  quietly  did  it  come,  and  so  naturally, 
that  it  gave  me  no  disturbance,  nor  forced  itself  upon 
me.  A  luminous  ring,  a  ring  of  pale  fire,  in  shape  a 
long,  narrow,  and  fluctuating  oval,  became  discern- 
ible in  the  sky  south  of  my  stand-point,  midway  (I 
thought)  between  me  and  the  south. 

It  was  diaphanous,  or  diaphanous  to  strong  light 
behind  it.  At  one  time  I  saw  the  great  beacon  of 
the  south-west  (Saturn,  I  think)  burning  through  it; 
not  within  the  ring,  but  from  behind  the  litten  vapour 
of  which  the  ring  was  made.  Lesser  fires  than  his 
were  put  out  by  it.  It  varied  very  much  in  shape  as 
it  spread  or  drew  out,  as  a  smoker's  blue  rings  are  va- 
ried by  puffs  of  wind.  Now  it  was  a  perfect  round, 
now  so  long  as  to  be  less  a  hoop  than  a  fine  oblong. 
Sometimes  it  was  pear-shaped,  sometimes  amorphous; 
bulbous  here,  hollow  there.  And  there  seemed  move- 
ment; I  thought  now  and  again  that  it  was  spiral  as 
well  as  circular,  that  it  might,  under  some  stress  of 


OREADS  211 

speed,  writhe  upward  like  dust  in  a  whirlwind.  It 
wavered,  certainly,  in  elevation,  lifting,  sinking, 
.wafted  one  way  or  another  with  the  ease  of  a  cloud 
of  gnats.  It  was  extraordinarily  beautiful  and  excit- 
ing. I  watched  it  for  an  hour. 

At  times  I  seemed  to  be  conscious  of  more  than  ap- 
pearance. I  cannot  speak  more  definitely  than  that. 
Music  was  assuredly  in  my  head,  very  shrill,  piercing, 
continuous  music.  No  air,  no  melody,  but  the  ex- 
pectancy of  an  air,  preparation  for  it,  a  prelude  to 
melodious  issues.  You  may  say  the  overture  to  some 
vast  aerial  symphony;  I  know  not  what  else  to  call 
it.  I  was  never  more  than  alive  to  it,  never  certain 
of  it.  It  was  as  furtive,  secret,  and  tremulous  as  the 
dawn  itself.  Now,  just  as  under  that  shivering  and 
tentative  opening  of  great  music  you  are  conscious 
of  the  fierce  energy  of  violins,  so  was  I  aware,  in  this 
surmise  of  music,  of  wild  forces  which  made  it.  I 
thought  not  of  voices  but  of  wings.  I  was  sure  that 
this  ring  of  flame  whirled  as  well  as  floated  in  the 
air;  the  motion  and  the  sound,  alike  indecipherable, 
were  one  and  the  same  to  me. 

I  watched  it,  I  say,  for  an  hour:  it  may  have  been 
for  two  hours.  By-and-by  it  came  nearer,  gradually 
very  near.  It  was  now  dazzling,  not  to  be  looked  at 
full;  but  its  rate  of  approach  was  inappreciable,  and 
as  it  came  on  I  was  able  to  peer  into  it  and  see  nothing 


212  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

but  its  beauty.  There  was  a  core  of  intensity,  intol- 
erably bright;  about  that,  lambency  but  no  flame, 
in  which  I  saw  leaves  and  straws  and  fronds  of  fern 
flickering,  spiring,  heeling  over  and  over.  That  it 
whirled  as  well  as  floated  was  now  clear,  for  a  strong 
wind  blew  before  and  after  it  as  it  rushed  by.  This 
happened  as  I  sat  there.  Blinding  but  not  burning, 
heralded  by  a  keen  wind,  it  came  by  me  and  passed; 
a  swift  wind  followed  it  as  it  went.  It  swept  out 
toward  the  hollow  of  the  eastern  valley-head,  seemed 
to  strike  upon  that  and  glance  upward;  thence  it 
swept  gladly  up,  streaming  to  the  zenith,  grew  thin, 
fine  and  filmy,  and  seemed  to  melt  into  the  utmost 
stars.  I  had  seen  wonders  and  went  home  full  of 
thought. 

II 

I  first  saw  an  Oread  in  this  place  in  a  snow-storm 
which,  driven  by  a  north-westerly  gale,  did  havoc  to 
the  lowlands,  but  not  to  the  folded  hills.  I  had 
pushed  up  the  valley  in  the  teeth  of  the  storm  to  see 
it  under  the  white  stress.  It  was  hard  work  for  me 
and  my  dog;  I  had  to  wade  knee-deep,  and  he  to 
jump,  like  a  cat  in  long  grass,  through  the  drifts. 
But  we  reached  our  haven  and  found  shelter  from  the 
weather.  High  above  us  where  we  stood  the  snow- 
flakes  tossed  and  rioted,  but  before  they  fell  upon 


OREADS  213 

us,  being  out  of  the  wind,  they  drifted  idly  down, 
come  .  .  .  in  Alpe  senza  vento.  The  whole  valley 
was  purely  white,  its  outlines  blurred  by  the  slant- 
driving  snow.  There  was  not  a  living  creature  to  be 
seen,  and  my  dog,  a  little  sharp-nosed  black  beast, 
shivered  as  he  looked  about,  with  wide  eyes  and 
quick-set  ears,  for  a  friendly  sight,  and  held  one  paw 
tentatively  in  the  air,  as  if  he  feared  the  cold. 

Suddenly  he  yelped  once,  and  ran,  limping  on 
three  legs  or  scuttling  on  all  four,  over  the  snow 
toward  the  great  eastern  escarpment,  but  midway 
stopped  and  looked  with  all  his  might  into  its 
smoothed  hollow.  His  jet-black  ears  stood  sharp  as 
a  hare's;  through  the  white  scud  I  was  conscious 
that  he  trembled.  He  gazed  into  the  sweep  of  the 
curving  hill,  and  following  the  direction  he  gave  me, 
all  my  senses  quick,  I  gazed  also,  but  for  a  while  saw 
nothing. 

Very  gradually,  without  alarm  on  my  part,  a  blur 
of  colour  seemed  to  form  itself  and  centre  in  one  spot, 
half-way  up  the  concave  of  the  down;  very  pale 
yellow,  a  soft,  lemon  colour.  At  first  scarcely  more 
than  a  warm  tinge  to  the  snow,  it  took  shape  as  I 
watched  it,  and  then  body  also.  It  was  now  opaque 
within  semi-transparency;  one  could  trace  an  out- 
line, a  form.  Then  I  made  out  of  it  a  woman  dressed 
in  yellow;  a  slim  woman,  tawny-haired,  in  a  thin 


214  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

smock  of  lemon-yellow  which  flacked  and  bellied  in 
the  gale.  Her  hair  blew  out  to  it  in  snaky  streamers, 
sideways.  Her  head  was  bent  to  meet  the  cold, 
her  bare  white  arms  were  crossed,  and  hugged  her 
shoulders,  as  if  to  keep  her  bosom  warm.  From  mid- 
thigh  downward  she  was  bare  and  very  white,  yet 
distinct  upon  the  snow.  That  was  the  white  of 
chilled  flesh  I  could  see.  Though  she  wore  but  a 
single  garment,  and  that  of  the  thinnest  and  shortest, 
though  she  suffered  cold,  hugged  herself  and  shivered, 
she  was  not  of  our  nature,  to  die  of  such  exposure. 
Her  eyes,  as  I  could  guess,  were  long-enduring  and 
steadfast.  Her  lips  were  not  blue,  though  her  teeth 
seemed  to  chatter;  she  was  not  rigid  with  the  stiffen- 
ing that  precedes  frozen  death.  Drawing  near  her 
by  degrees,  coming  within  fifteen  yards  of  where  she 
stood  and  passioned,  though  she  saw  me,  waited  for 
me,  in  a  way  expected  me,  she  showed  neither  fear 
nor  embarrassment,  nor  appealed  by  looks  for  shel- 
ter. She  was,  rather,  like  a  bird  made  tame  by 
winter,  that  finds  the  lesser  fear  swallowed  up  in  a 
greater.  For  myself,  as  when  one  finds  one's  self 
before  a  new  thing,  one  stands  and  gazes,  so  was  I 
before  this  being  of  the  wild.  I  would  go  no  nearer, 
speak  I  could  not.  But  I  had  no  fear.  She  was  new 
to  me  not  strange.  I  felt  that  she  and  I  belonged  to 
worlds  apart;  that  as  soon  might  I  hope  to  be  famil- 


OREADS  215 

/ 
iar  with  fox  or  marten  as  with  her.    My  little  black 

dog  was  of  the  same  mind.  He  was  glad  when  I 
joined  him,  and  wagged  his  little  body — tail  he  has 
none — to  say  so.  But  he  had  no  eyes  for  me,  nor  I 
for  him.  We  stood  together  for  company,  and  filled 
our  eyes  with  the  tenant  of  the  waste.  How  long 
we  watched  her  I  have  no  notion,  but  the  day  fell 
swiftly  in  and  found  us  there. 

She  was,  I  take  it,  quite  young,  she  was  slim  and 
of  ordinary  proportions.  /  When  I  say  that  I  mean 
that  she  had  nothing  inhuman  about  her  stature, 
was  neither  giant  nor  pygmy.  Whether  she  was  what 
we  call  good-looking  or  not  I  find  it  impossible  to 
determine,  for  when  strangeness  is  so  added  to  beauty 
as  to  absorb  and  transform  it,  our  standards  are 
upset  and  balances  thrown  out.  /She  was  pale  to  the 
lips,  had  large,  fixed  and  patient  eyes.  Her  arms  and 
legs  showed  greyish  in  the  white  storm,  but  where  the 
smock  was  cut  off  the  shadows  it  made  upon  her  were 
faintly  warm.  One  of  her  knees  was  bent,  the  foot 
supported  only  by  the  toes.  The  other  was  firm  upon 
the  ground:  she  looked,  to  the  casual  eye,  to  be 
standing  on  one  leg.  Her  eyes  in  a  stare  covered 
me,  but  were  not  concerned  to  see  me  so  near.  They 
had  the  undiscerning  look  of  one  whose  mind  is 
numbed,  as  hers  might  well  be.  Shelter — a  barn,  a 
hayrick — lay  within  a  mile  of  her;  and  yet  she  chose 
to  suffer  the  cold,  and  was  able  to  endure  it.  She 


2i6  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

knew  it,  I  supposed,  for  a  thing  not  to  be  avoided; 
she  took  it  as  it  came — as  she  would  have  taken  the 
warmth  and  pleasure  of  the  sun.  We  humankind 
with  our  wits  for  ever  turned  inward  to  ourselves, 
grieve  or  exult  as  we  bid  ourselves:  she,  like  all  other 
creatures  else,  was  not  in  that  self-relation;  her  parts 
were  closer-knit,  and  could  not  separate  to  envisage 
each  other.  So,  at  least,  I  read  her — that  she  lived 
as  she  could  and  as  she  must,  neither  looked  back 
with  regret  nor  forward  with  longing.  Time  present, 
the  flashing  moment,  was  all  her  being.  That  state 
will  never  be  ours  again. 

I  discovered  before  nightfall  what  she  waited  for 
there  alone  in  the  cruel  weather.  A  moving  thing 
emerged  from  the  heart  of  the  white  fury,  came  up 
the  valley  along  the  shelving  down:  a  shape  like  hers, 
free-moving,  thinly  clad,  suffering  yet  not  paralysed 
by  the  storm.  It  shaped  as  a  man,  a  young  man,  and 
her  mate.  Taller,  darker,  stoutlier  made,  his  hardy 
legs  were  browner,  and  so  were  his  arms — crossed  like 
hers  over  his  breast  and  clasping  his  shoulders.  His 
head  was  bare,  dark  and  crisply  covered  with  short 
hair.  His  smock  whipped  about  him  before,  as  the 
wind  drove  it;  behind  him  it  flacked  and  fluttered 
like  a  flag.  Patiently  forging  his  way,  bowing  his 
head  to  the  gale,  he  came  into  range;  and  she,  aware 
of  him,  waited. 

He  came  directly  to  her.     They  greeted  by  touch- 


OREADS  217 

ings.  He  stretched  out  his  hands  to  her,  touched  her 
shoulders  and  sides.  He  touched  both  her  cheeks, 
her  chin,  the  top  of  her  head,  all  with  the  flat  of  the 
palm.  He  stroked  her  wet  and  streaming  hair.  He 
held  her  by  the  shoulders  and  peered  into  her  face, 
then  put  both  arms  about  her  and  drew  her  to  him. 
She,  who  had  safar  made  no  motions  of  her  own,  now 
uncrossed  her  arms  and  daintily  touched  him  in  turn. 
She  put  both  her  palms  flat  upon  his  breast;  next  on 
his  thighs,  next,  being  within  the  circle  of  his  arms, 
she  put  up  her  hands  and  cupped  his  face.  Then, 
with  a  gesture  like  a  sigh,  she  let  them  fall  to  his 
waist,  fastened  them  about  him  and  let  her  head  lie 
on  his  bosom.  She  shut  her  eyes,  seemed  contented 
and  appeased.  He  clasped  her,  with  a  fine,  protect- 
ing air  upon  him,  looking  down  tenderly  at  her  rest- 
ing head.  So  they  stood  together  in  the  dusk,  while 
the  wind  tore  at  their  thin  covering,  and  the  snow, 
lying,  made  a  broad  patch  of  white  upon  his  shoulder. 

Breathless  I  looked  at  them,  and  my  dog  forgot  to 
be  cold.  High  on  his  haunches,  with  lifted  forepaw 
and  sharp-cocked  ears,  he  watched,  trembled  and 
whined. 

After  a  while,  impatient  as  it  appeared  of  the  rav- 
aging storm,  the  male  drew  the  female  to  the  ground. 
They  used  no  language,  as  we  understand  it,  and 
made  no  -sign  that  I  could  see,  but  rather  sank  to- 


218  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

gether  to  get  the  shelter  of  the  drift.  He  lay  upon 
the  snow,  upon  the  weather  side,  she  close  beside 
him.  They  crouched  like  two  birds  in  a  storm,  and 
hid  their  heads  under  their  interlacing  arms.  He 
gave  the  weather  his  back,  and  raised  himself  on  his 
elbow,  the  better  to  shield  her.  Within  his  arm  she 
lay  and  cuddled  to  him  snugly.  I  can  describe  his 
action  no  more  closely  than  by  saying  that  he  covered 
her  as  a  hen  her  chick.  As  a  partridge  grouts  with 
her  wings  in  a  dusty  furrow,  so  he  worked  in  the 
powdered  snow  to  make  her  a  nest.  When  the  night 
fell  upon  them,  with  its  promise  of  bitter  frost  in  the 
unrelenting  wind,  she  lay  screened  against  its  rigours 
by  the  shelter  of  him.  They  were  very  still.  Their 
heads  were  together,  their  cheeks  touched.  I  believe 
that  they  slept. 

HI 

In  the  autumn,  in  harvest-time,  I  saw  her  with  a 
little  one.  She  was  lying  now,  deeply  at  ease,  in  the 
copse  wood  of  the  valley-head,  within  a  nest  of  brake- 
fern,  and  her  colouring  was  richer,  more  in  tune  with 
the  glory  of  the  hour.  She  had  a  burnt  glow  in  her 
cheeks;  her  hair  showed  the  hue  of  the  corn  which, 
not  a  mile  away,  our  people  were  reaping  afield. 
From  where  we  were,  she  and  I,  one  could  hear  the 
rattle  of  the  machine  as  it  swept  down  the  tall  and 


OREADS  219 

serried  wheat.  It  was  the  top  of  noon  when  I  found 
her;  the  sun  high  in  heaven,  but  so  fierce  in  his  power 
that  you  saw  him  through  a  mist  of  his  own  making, 
and  the  sky  all  about  him  white  as  a  sea-fog.  The 
Oread's  body  was  sanguine  brown,  only  her  breast, 
which  I  saw  half-revealed  through  a  slit  in  her 
smock,  was  snowy  white.  It  was  the  breast  of  a 
maiden,  not  of  a  mother  with  a  young  child. 

She  leaned  over  it  and  watched  it  asleep.  Once 
or  twice  she  touched  its  head  in  affection;  then  pres- 
ently looked  up  and  saw  me.  If  I  had  had  no  sur- 
prise coming  upon  her,  neither  now  had  she.  Her 
eyes  took  me  in,  as  mine  might  take  in  a  tree  not 
noticed  before,  or  a  flowering  bush,  or  a  finger-post. 
Such  things  might  well  be  there,  and  might  well  not 
be;  I  had  no  particular  interest  for  her,  and  gave  her 
no  alarm.  Nothing  assures  me  so  certainly  of  her 
remoteness  from  myself,  and  of  my  kinship  with  her 
too,  as  this  absence  of  shock. 

She  allowed  me  to  come  nearer,  and  nearer  still, 
to  stand  close  over  her  and  examine  the  child.  She 
did  not  lift  her  head,  but  I  knew  that  she  was  aware 
of  me;  for  her  eyelids  lifted  and  fell  quickly,  and 
showed  me  once  or  twice  her  watchful  eyes.  She 
was  indeed  a  beautiful  creature,  exquisite  in  make  and 
finish.  Her  skin  shone  like  the  petals  of  certain 
flowers.  There  is  one  especially,  called  Sisyrinchiwn, 


220  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

whose  common  name  of  Satin-flower  describes  a  sur- 
face almost  metallic  in  its  lustre.  I  thought  of  that 
immediately:  her  skin  drank  in  and  exhaled  light. 
I  could  not  hit  upon  the  stuff  of  which  her  shift  was 
made.  It  looked  like  coarse  silk,  had  a  web,  had 
fibres  or  threads.  It  may  have  been  flax,  but  that 
it  was  much  too  sinuous.  It  seemed  to  stick  to  the 
body  where  it  touched,  even  to  seek  the  flesh  where  it 
did  not  touch,  that  it  might  cling  like  gossamer  with 
invisible  tentacles.  In  colour  it  was  very  pale  yel- 
low, not  worn  nor  stained.  It  was  perfectly  simple, 
sleeveless,  and  stopped  half-way  between  the  hip 
and  the  knee.  I  looked  for,  but  could  not  discover, 
either  hem  or  seam.  Her  feet  and  hands  were  very 
lovely,  the  toes  and  fingers  long  and  narrow,  rosy- 
brown.  I  had  full  sight  of  her  eyes  for  one  throb- 
bing moment.  Extraordinarily  bright,  quick  and 
pulsing,  waxing  and  waning  in  intensity  (as  if  an  in- 
ner light  beat  in  them),  of  the  grey  colour  of  a  chipped 
flint  stone.  The  lashes  were  long,  curving  and  very 
dark;  they  were  what  you  might  call  smut-colour 
and  gave  a  blurred  effect  to  the  eyes  which  was 
strange.  This,  among  other  things,  was  what  set  her 
apart  from  us,  this  and  the  patient  yet  palpitating 
stare  of  her  regard.  She  looked  at  me  suddenly, 
widely  and  full,  taking  in  much  more  than  me,  yet 
making  me  the  centre  of  her  vision.  It  gave  me  the 


OREADS  221 

idea  that  she  was  surprised  at  my  nearness  and  ready 
for  any  attack,  but  did  not  seek  to  avoid  it.  There 
I  was  overstanding  her  and  her  offspring;  and  what 
was  must  be. 

Of  the  little  one  I  could  not  see  much.  It  was  on 
its  side  in  the  fern,  fast  asleep.  Its  arms  were 
stretched  up  the  slope,  its  face  was  between  them. 
Its  knees  were  bent  and  a  little  foot  tucked  up  to 
touch  its  body.  Quite  naked,  brown  all  over,  it  was 
as  plump  and  smooth  and  tender  as  a  little  pig. 
But  it  was  not  pink;  it  was  very  brown. 

All  nature  seemed  at  the  top  of  perfection  that 
wonderful  day.  A  hawk  soared  high  in  the  blue, 
bees  murmured  all  about,  the  distance  quivered.  I 
could  see  under  the  leaves  of  a  great  mullein  the 
bright  eyes,  then  the  round  body  of  a  mouse.  Afar 
off  the  corn-cutter  rattled  and  whirred,  and  above  us 
on  the  ridgeway  some  workmen  sat  at  their  dinner 
under  the  telegraph  wires.  Men  were  all  about  us 
at  their  affairs  with  Nature's  face;  and  here  stood  I, 
a  man  of  themselves,  and  at  my  feet  the  Oread  lay 
at  ease  and  watched  her  young.  There  was  food  for 
wonder  in  all  this,  but  none  for  doubt.  Who  knows 
what  his  neighbour  sees?  Who  knows  what  his  dog? 
Every  species  of  us  walks  secret  from  the  others; 
every  species  of  us  the  centre  of  his  universe,  its 
staple  of  measure,  and  its  final  cause.  And  if  at 


222  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

times  one  is  granted  a  peep  into  new  heavens  and  a 
new  earth,  and  can  get  no  more,  perhaps  the  best 
thing  we  win  from  that  is  the  conviction  that  we  must 
doubt  nothing  and  wonder  at  everything.  Here, 
now,  was  I,  common,  blundering,  trampling,  make- 
shift man,  peering  upon  my  Oread — fairy  of  the  hill, 
whatever  she  was — and  tempted  to  gauge  her  by 
my  man-taught  balances  of  right  and  wrong,  and 
use  and  wont.  Was  that  young  male  who  had  shel- 
tered her  in  the  snow  her  mate  in  truth,  the  father 
of  her  young  one?  Or  what  sort  of  mating  had 
been  hers?  What  wild  love?  What  mysteries  of 
the  night?  And  where  was  he  now?  And  was  he 
one,  or  were  they  many,  who  companioned  this  beau- 
tiful thing?  And  would  he  come  if  I  waited  for  him? 
And  would  he  share  her  watch,  her  quiet  content,  her 
still  rapture? 

Idle,  man-made  questions,  custom- taught!  I  did 
wait.  I  sat  by  her  waiting.  But  he  did  not  come. 

IV 

A  month  later,  in  October,  I  saw  a  great  assem- 
bling of  Oreads,  by  which  I  was  able  to  connect  more 
than  one  experience.  I  could  now  understand  the 
phenomenon  of  the  luminous  ring. 

I  reached  the  valley  by  about  six  o'clock  in  the 


OREADS  223 

evening.  It  was  twilight,  not  yet  dusk.  The  sun 
was  off  the  hollow,  which  lay  in  blue  mist,  but  above 
the  level  of  the  surrounding  hills  the  air  was  bathed 
in  the  sunset  glow.  The  hush  of  evening  was  over 
all,  the  great  cup  of  the  down  absolutely  desert; 
there  were  no  birds,  nor  voices  of  birds;  not  a  twig 
snapped,  not  a  leaf  rustled.  Imperceptibly  the  shad- 
ows lengthened,  faded  with  the  light;  and  again  be- 
hind the  silence  I  guessed  at,  rather  than  discerned, 
a  preparatory,  gathering  music.  So  finally,  by  twos 
and  threes,  they  came  to  their  assembling. 

Once  more  I  never  saw  them  come.  Out  of  the 
mist  they  drifted  together.  There  had  been  a  mo- 
ment when  they  were  not  there;  there  was  a  moment 
when  I  saw  them.  I  saw  three  of  them  together, 
two  females  and  a  male.  They  formed  a  circle,  fac- 
ing inwards,  their  arms  intertwined.  The  pale  colour 
of  their  garments,  the  grey  tones  in  their  flesh  were 
so  perfectly  in  tune  with  the  hazy  light,  that  it  would 
have  been  impossible,  I  am  certain,  to  have  seen  them 
at  all  at  a  hundred  yards'  distance.  I  could  not  de- 
termine whether  they  were  conversing  or  not:  if  they 
were,  it  was  without  speech.  I  have  never  heard  an 
articulate  sound  from  any  one  of  them,  and  have  no 
provable  reason  for  connecting  the  unvoiced  music 
I  have  sometimes  discerned  with  any  act  of  theirs. 
It  has  accompanied  them,  and  may  have  proceeded 


224  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

from  them — but  I  don't  know  that.  Of  these  three 
linked  together  I  remember  that  one  of  them  threw 
back  her  head  till  she  faced  the  sky.  She  did  not 
laugh,  or  seem  to  be  laughing:  there  was  no  sound. 
It  was  rather  as  if  she  was  bathing  her  face  in  the 
light.  She  threw  her  head  back  so  far  that  I  could 
see  the  gleam  in  her  wild  eyes;  her  hair  streamed 
downward,  straight  as  a  fall  of  water.  The  other 
two  regarded  her,  and  the  male  presently  withdrew 
one  of  his  arms  from  the  circle  and  laid  his  hand  upon 
her.  She  let  it  be  so;  seemed  not  to  notice. 

Imperceptibly  others  had  come  about  these  three. 
If  I  took  my  eyes  off  a  group  for  a  moment  they  were 
attracted  to  other  groups  or  single  shapes.  Some  lay 
at  ease  on  the  sward,  resting  on  elbow;  some  prone, 
on  both  elbows;  some  seemed  asleep,  their  heads  on 
molehill  pillows;  some  sat  huddling  together,  with 
their  chins  upon  their  knees;  some  knelt  face  to  face 
and  held  each  other  fondly;  some  were  teasing,  some 
chasing  others,  winding  in  and  out  of  the  scattered 
groups.  But  everything  was  doing  in  complete 
silence. 

Now  and  again  one,  flying  from  another,  would 
rise  in  the  air,  the  pursuer  following.  They  skimmed, 
soared,  glided  like  swallows,  in  long  sweeping  curves 
— there  was  no  noise  in  their  flight.  They  were  quite 
without  reticence  in  their  intercourse;  desired  or 


OREADS  225 

avoided,  loved  or  hated  as  the  moment  urged  them; 
strove  to  win,  struggled  to  escape,  achieved  or  sur- 
rendered without  remark  from  their  companions. 
They  were  like  children  or  animals.  Desire  was 
reason  good;  and  if  love  was  soon  over,  hate  lasted 
no  longer.  One  passion  or  the  other  set  them  scuf- 
fling: when  it  was  spent  they  had  no  after-thought. 

One  pretty  sight  I  saw.  A  hare  came  lolloping 
over  the  valley  bottom,  quite  at  his  ease.  In  the 
midst  of  the  assembly  he  stopped  to  nibble,  then 
reared  himself  up  and  cleaned  his  face.  He  saw  them 
and  they  him  without  concern  on  either  side. 

The  valley  filled  up;  I  could  not  count  the  shifting, 
crossing,  restless  shapes  I  saw  down  there.  Pres- 
ently, without  call  or  signal,  as  if  by  one  consent,  the 
Oreads  joined  hands  and  enclosed  the  whole  circuit 
in  their  ring.  The  effect  in  the  dusk  was  of  a  pale 
glow,  as  of  the  softest  fire,  defining  the  contour  of 
the  valley;  and  soon  they  were  moving,  circling 
round  and  round.  Shriller  and  louder  swelled  the 
hidden  music,  and  faster  span  the  ring.  It  whirled 
and  wavered,  lifted  and  fell,  but  so  smoothly,  with 
such  inherent  power  of  motion,  that  it  was  less  like 
motion  visible  than  motion  heard.  Nothing  was 
distinguishable  but  the  belt  of  pale  fire.  That  which 
I  had  seen  before  they  had  now  become — a  ring  of 
flame  intensely  swift.  As  if  sucked  upward  by  a 


226  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

centripetal  force  it  rose  in  the  air.  Wheeling  still 
with  a  sound  incredibly  shrill  it  rose  to  my  level, 
swept  by  me  heralded  by  a  keen  wind,  and  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  draught  which  caught  leaves  and  straws 
of  grass  and  took  them  swirling  along.  Round  and 
up,  and  ever  up  it  went,  narrowing  and  spiring  to  the 
zenith.  There,  looking  long  after  it,  I  saw  it  dimin- 
ish in  size  and  brightness  till  it  became  filmy  as  a 
cloud,  then  melted  into  the  company  of  the  stars. 


A  SUMMARY  CHAPTER 

Now,  it  is  the  recent  publication  by  Mr.  Evans 
Wentz  of  a  careful  and  enthusiastic  work  upon  The 
Fairy  Faith  in  Celtic  Countries  which  has  inspired 
me  to  put  these  pages  before  the  public.  Some  of 
them  have  appeared  in  the  magazines  as  curious 
recitals  and  may  have  afforded  pastime  to  the  idle- 
minded,  but  without  the  courageous  initiative  of  Mr. 
Wentz  I  don't  know  that  I  should  have  attempted 
to  give  them  such  coherence  as  they  may  claim  to 
possess.  And  that,  I  fear,  will  be  very  little  with- 
out this  chapter  in  which  I  shall,  if  I  can,  clear  the 
ground  for  a  systematic  study  of  the  whole  subject. 
No  candid  reader  can,  I  hope,  rise  from  the  perusal 
of  the  book  without  the  conviction  that  behind  the 
world  of  appearance  lies  another  and  a  vaster  with  a 
thronging  population  of  its  own — with  many  popu- 
lations, indeed,  each  absorbed  in  uttering  its  being 
according  to  its  own  laws.  If  I  have  afforded  noth- 
ing else  I  have  afforded  glimpses  into  that  world; 
and  the  question  now  is,  What  do  we  precisely 
gather,  what  can  we  be  said  to  know  of  the  laws  of 

that  world  in  which  these  swift,  beautiful  and  appar- 

227 


228  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

ently  ruthless  creatures  live  and  move  and  utter 
themselves  ?  I  shall  have  to  draw  upon  more  than 
I  have  recorded  here:  cases  which  I  have  heard  of, 
which  I  have  read  of  in  other  men's  books,  as  well 
as  those  which  are  related  here  as  personal  revelation. 
If  I  speak  pragmatically,  ex  cathedra,  it  is  not  inten- 
tional. If  I  fail  sometimes  to  give  chapter  and  verse 
it  will  be  because  I  have  never  taken  any  notes  of 
what  has  gone  into  my  memory,  and  have  no  docu- 
ments to  hand.  But  I  don't  invent;  I  remember. 

There  is  a  chain  of  Being  of  whose  top  alike  and 
bottom  we  know  nothing  at  all.  What  we  do  know 
is  that  our  own  is  a  link  in  it,  and  cannot  generally, 
can  only  fitfully  and  rarely,  have  intercourse  with 
any  other.  I  am  not  prepared  with  any  modern  in- 
stances of  intercourse  with  the  animal  and  vegetable 
world,  even  to  such  a  limited  extent,  for  instance,  as 
that  of  Balaam  with  his  ass,  or  that  of  Achilles  with 
his  horses;  but  I  suspect  that  there  are  an  enormous 
number  unrecorded.  Speech,  of  course,  is  not  neces- 
sary to  such  an  intercourse.  Speech  is  a  vehicle  of 
human  intercourse,  but  not  of  that  of  any  other 
created  order  so  far  as  we  know.1  Birds  and  beasts 
do  not  converse  in  speech,  smell  or  touch  seems  to 

1  The  speech  of  Balaam's  ass  or  of  Balaam,  of  Achilles  and  his  horses 
are,  of  course,  necessary  conventions  of  the  poet's  and  do  not  imply 
that  words  passed  between  the  parties. 


A  SUMMARY  CHAPTER  229 

be  the  sense  employed;  and  though  the  vehicles  of 
smell  and  touch  are  unknown  to  us,  in  moments  of 
high  emotion  we  ourselves  converse  otherwise  than 
by  speech.  Indeed,  seeing  that  all  created  things 
possess  a  spirit  whereby  they  are  what  they  are,  it 
does  not  seem  necessary  to  suppose  intercourse 
impossible  without  speech,  and  I  myself  have  never 
had  any  difficulty  in  accepting  the  stories  of  much 
more  vital  mixed  intercourse  which  we  read  of  in  the 
Greek  and  other  mythologies.  If  we  read,  for  in- 
stance, that  such  and  such  a  man  or  woman  was  the 
offspring  of  a  woman  and  the  spirit  of  a  river,  or  of 
a  man  and  the  spirit  of  a  hill  or  oak-tree,  it  does  not 
seem  to  me  at  all  extraordinary.  The  story  of  the 
wife  who  suffered  a  fairy  union  and  bore  a  fairy 
child  which  disappeared  with  her  is  a  case  in  point. 
The  fairy  father  was,  so  far  as  I  can  make  out,  the 
indwelling  spirit  of  a  rose,  and  the  story  is  too  pain- 
ful and  the  detail  in  my  possession  too  exact  for  me 
to  put  it  down  here.  I  was  myself  actually  present, 
and  in  the  house,  when  the  child  was  born.  I  wit- 
nessed the  anguish  of  the  unfortunate  husband,  who 
is  now  dead.  Mr.  Wentz  has  many  instances  of  the 
kind  from  Ireland  and  other  Celtic  countries;  but, 
fairies  are  by  no  means  confined  to  Celtic  coun- 
tries, though  they  are  more  easily  discerned  by 
Celtic  races. 


230  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

Of  this  chain  of  Being,  then,  of  which  our  order  is 
a  member,  the  fairy  world  is  another  and  more  subtle 
member,  subtler  in  the  right  sense  of  the  word  be- 
cause it  is  not  burdened  with  a  material  envelope. 
Like  man,  like  the  wind,  like  the  rose,  it  has  spirit; 
but  unlike  any  of  the  lower  orders,  of  which  man  is 
one,  it  has  no  sensible  wrapping  unless  deliberately 
it  consents  to  inhabit  one.  This,  as  we  know,  it  fre- 
quently does.  I  have  mentioned  several  cases  of  the 
kind;  Mrs.  Ventris  was  one,  Mabilla  By- the- Wood 
was  another.  I  have  not  personally  come  across  any 
other  cases  where  a  male  fairy  took  upon  him  the 
burden  of  a  man  than  that  of  Quidnunc.  Even  there 
I  have  never  been  satisfied  that  Quidnunc  became 
man  to  the  extent  that  Mrs.  Ventris  did.  Quidnunc, 
no  doubt,  was  the  father  of  Lady  Emily's  children; 
but  were  those  children  human?  There  are  some 
grounds  for  thinking  so,  and  in  that  case,  if  "the 
nature  follows  the  male,"  Quidnunc  must  have  doffed 
his  immateriality  and  suffered  real  incarnation.  If 
they  were  fairy  children  the  case  is  altered.  Quid- 
nunc need  not  have  had  a  body  at  all.  Now  since 
it  is  clear  that  the  fairy  world  is  a  real  order  of 
creation,  with  laws  of  its  own  every  whit  as  fixed 
and  immutable  as  those  of  any  other  order  known 
to  naturalists,  it  is  very  reasonable  to  inquire  into 
the  nature  and  scope  of  those  laws.  I  am  not  at  all 


A  SUMMARY  CHAPTER  231 

prepared  at  present  to  attempt  anything  like  a  digest 
of  them.  That  would  require  a  lifetime;  and  no 
small  part  of  the  task,  after  marshalling  the  evi- 
dence, would  be  to  agree  upon  terms  which  would 
be  intelligible  to  ourselves  and  yet  not  misleading. 
To  take  polity  alone,  are  we  to  understand  that  any 
kind  of  Government  resembling  that  of  human  socie- 
ties obtains  among  them?  When  we  talk  of  Queens 
or  Kings  of  the  Fairies,  of  Oberon  and  Titania,  for 
example,  are  we  using  a  rough  translation  of  a  real 
something,  or  are  we  telling  the  mere  truth?  Is  there 
a  fairy  king?  The  King  of  the  Wood,  for  instance, 
who  was  he?  Is  there  a  fairy  queen?  Who  is 
Queen  Mab?  Who  is  Despoina?  Who  the  Lady 
of  the  Lake?  Who  the  "  Bao-tXto-o-o,  T£>V  /3oww"  or 
"MeyaXrj  Kvpd"  of  whom  Mr.  Lawson  tells  us  such 
suggestive  things  in  his  Modern  Greek  Folklore? 
Who  is  Despoina,  with  whom  I  myself  have  con- 
versed, "a  dread  goddess,  not  of  human  speech?" 
The  truth,  I  suspect,  is  this.  There  are,  as  we  know, 
countless  tribes,  clans,  or  orders  of  fairies,  just  as 
there  are  nations  of  men.  They  confess  the  power 
of  some  greater  Spirit  among  themselves,  bow  to  it 
instantly  and  submit  to  its  decrees;  but  they  do  not, 
so  far  as  I  can  understand,  acknowledge  a  monarchy 
in  any  sense  of  ours.  If  there  is  a  Supreme  Power 
over  the  fairy  creation  it  is  Proserpine;  but  hers  is 


232  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

too  remote  an  empire  to  be  comparable  to  any  of 
ours.  Not  even  Caesar,  not  even  the  Great  King, 
could  hope  to  rule  such  myriads  as  she.  She  may 
stand  for  the  invisible  creation  no  doubt,  but  she 
would  never  have  commerce  with  it.  No  fairy  hath 
seen  her  at  any  time;  no  sovereignty  such  as  we  are 
now  discussing  would  be  applicable  to  her  dominion. 
That  of  Artemis,  or  that  of  Pan,  is  more  comparable. 
Artemis  is  certainly  ruler  of  the  spirits  of  the  air  and 
water,  of  the  hills  and  shores  of  the  sea,  and  to  some 
extent  her  power  overlaps  that  of  Pan  who  is  potent 
in  nearly  all  land  solitudes.  But  really  the  two  lord- 
ships can  be  exactly  discriminated.  They  never  con- 
flict. The  legions  of  Artemis  are  all  female,  though 
on  earth  men  as  well  as  women  worship  her;  the 
legions  of  Pan  are  all  male,  though  on  earth  he  can 
chasten  women  as  well  as  men.1  But  Pan  can  do 
nothing  against  Artemis,  nor  she  anything  against 
him  or  any  of  his.  The  decree  or  swift  deed  of  either 
is  respected  by  the  other.  They  are  not,  then,  as 
earthly  kings,  leaders  of  their  hosts  to  battle  against 
their  neighbours.  Fairies  fight  and  marshal  them- 
selves for  war;  Mr.  Wentz  has  several  cases  of  the 
kind.  But  Pan  and  Artemis  have  no  share  in  these 
warfares.  Queen  Mab  is  one  of  the  many  names, 

1  But  if  this  is  true,  who  is  the  King  of  the  Wood?    The  statement  is 
too  sweeping. 


A  SUMMARY  CHAPTER  233 

and  points  to  one  of  the  many  manifestations  of 
Artemis;  the  Lady  of  the  Lake  is  another.  Both  of 
these  have  died  out,  and  in  the  country  she  is  gen- 
erally hinted  at  under  the  veil  of  "Mistress  of  the 
Wood"  or  "Lady  of  the  Hill."  I  heard  the  latter 
from  a  Wiltshire  shepherd;  the  former  is  used  in 
Sussex,  in  the  Cheviots,  and  in  Lincolnshire,  and  was 
introduced,  I  believe,  by  the  Gipsies.  Titania  was 
a  name  of  romance,  and  so  was  Oberon,  that  of  her 
husband  in  romance.  Queen  Mab  has  no  husband, 
nor  will  she  ever  have. 

But  she  is,  of  course,  a  goddess,  and  not  a  queen 
in  our  sense  of  the  word.  The  fairies,  who  partake 
of  her  nature  just  so  far  as  we  partake  of  theirs,  pray 
to  her,  invoke  her,  and  make  her  offerings  every  day. 
But  a  vital  difference  between  their  kind  and  ours 
is  that  they  can  see  her  and  live;  and  we  never  see 
the  Gods  until  we  die. 

They  have  no  other  leaders,  I  believe,  and  cer- 
tainly no  royal  houses.  Faculty  is  free  in  the  fairy 
world  to  its  utmost  limit.  A  fairy's  power  within  his 
own  order  is  limited  only  by  the  extent  of  his  personal 
faculty,  and  subject  only  to  the  Gods.  There  is  no 
civil  law  to  restrain  him,  and  no  moral  law;  no  law 
at  all  except  the  law  of  being.1 

1  Apparent  eccentricities  of  this  law,  such  as  the  obedience  to  iron,  or 
zinc  (if  we  may  believe  Beckwith),  should  be  noted.  I  can't  explain 
them.  They  seem  arbitrary  at  first  sight,  but  nothing  in  Nature  is 
arbitrary. 


234  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

We  are  contemplating,  then,  a  realm,  nay,  a  world, 
where  anarchy  is  the  rule,  and  anarchy  in  the  widest 
sense.  The  fairies  are  of  a  world  where  Right  and 
Wrong  don't  obtain,  where  Possible  and  Impossible 
are  the  only  finger-posts  at  cross-roads;  for  the  Gods 
themselves  give  no  moral  sanction  to  desire  and 
hold  up  no  moral  check.  The  fairies  love  and  hate 
intensely;  they  crave  and  enjoy;  they  satisfy  by 
kindness  or  cruelty;  they  serve  or  enslave  each  other; 
they  give  life  or  take  it  as  their  instinct,  appetite  or 
whim  may  be.  But  there  is  this  remarkable  thing 
to  be  noted,  that  when  a  thing  is  dead  they  cannot  be 
aware  of  its  existence.  For  them  it  is  not,  it  is  as 
if  it  had  never  been.  Ruth,  therefore,  is  unknown, 
their  emotions  are  maimed  to  that  serious  extent 
that  they  cannot  regret,  cannot  pity,  cannot  weep 
for  sorrow.  They  weep  through  rage,  but  sorrow 
they  know  not.  Similarly  they  cannot  laugh  for  joy. 
Laughing  with  them  is  an  expression  of  pleasure,  but 
not  of  joy.  Here  then,  at  least,  we  have  the  better 
of  them.  I  for  one  would  not  exchange  my  privilege 
of  pity  or  my  consolation  of  pure  sorrow  for  all  their 
transcendent  faculty. 

It  is  often  said  that  fairies  of  both  sexes  seek  our 
kind  because  we  know  more  of  the  pleasure  of  love 
than  they  do.  Since  we  know  more  of  the  griefs  of 
it  that  is  likely  to  be  true;  but  it  is  a  great  mistake 


A  SUMMARY  CHAPTER  235 

to  suppose  that  they  are  unsusceptible  to  the  great 
heights  and  deeps  of  the  holy  passion.  It  is  to  make 
the  vulgar  confusion  between  the  passion  and  the 
expression  of  it.  They  are  capable  of  the  greatest 
devotion  to  the  beloved,  of  the  greatest  sacrifice  of 
all — the  sacrifice  of  their  own  nature.  These  fairy- 
wives  of  whom  I  have  been  speaking — Miranda  King, 
Mabilla  By-the-Wood — when  they  took  upon  them 
our  nature,  and  with  it  our  power  of  backward- 
looking  and  forward-peering,  was  what  they  could 
remember,  was  what  they  must  dread,  no  sacrifice? 
They  could  have  escaped  at  any  moment,  mind  you, 
and  been  free.1  Resuming  their  first  nature  they 
would  have  lost  regret.  But  they  did  not.  Love  was 
their  master.  There  are  many  cases  of  the  kind. 
With  men  it  is  otherwise.  I  have  mentioned  Mary 
Wellwood,  the  carpenter's  wife,  twice  taken  by  a 
fairy  and  twice  recaptured.  The  last  time  she  was 
brought  back  to  Ashby-de-la-Zouche  she  died  there. 
But  there  is  reason  for  this.  A  woman  marrying  a 

1  When  a  fairy  marries  a  man  she  gradually  loses  her  fairy-power  and 
her  children  have  none  of  it  or  only  vestiges — so  much  as  the  children  of 
a  genius  may  perhaps  exhibit.  I  am  not  able  to  say  how  long  the  fairy- 
wife's  ability  to  resume  her  own  nature  lasts.  The  Forsaken  Merman 
occurs  to  one;  but  I  doubt  if  Miranda  King,  at  the  time,  say,  of  her 
son's  marriage  with  Mabilla,  could  have  gone  back  to  the  sea.  Some- 
times, as  in  Mrs.  Ventris's  case,  fairy-wives  play  truant  for  a  night  or 
for  a  season.  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  not  uncommon.  The  num- 
ber of  fairy-wives  in  England  alone  is  very  considerable — over  a  quarter 
of  a  million,  I  am  told. 


236  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

male  fairy  gets  some,  but  not  all,  of  the  fairy  attri- 
butes, while  her  children  have  them  in  full  at  birth. 
She  bears  them  with  all  the  signs  of  human  mother- 
hood, and  directly  they  are  born  her  earthly  rights 
and  duties  cease.  She  does  not  nurse  them  and 
she  can  only  rise  in  the  air  when  they  are  with  her. 
That  means  that  she  cannot  go  after  them  if  they 
are  long  away  from  her,  unless  she  can  get  another 
fairy  to  keep  her  company.  By  the  same  mysterious 
law  she  can  only  conceal  herself,  or  doff  her  appear- 
ance, with  the  aid  of  a  fairy.  For  some  time  after 
her  abduction  or  surrender  her  husband  has  to  nour- 
ish her  by  breathing  into  her  mouth;  but  with  the 
birth  of  her  first  child  she  can  support  herself  in  the 
fairy  manner.  It  was  owing  to  this  imperfect  state 
of  being  that  Mary  Wellwood  was  resumed  by  her 
friends  the  first  time.  The  second  time  she  went 
back  of  her  own  accord. 

But  with  regard  to  their  love-business  among 
themselves  it  is  a  very  different  matter,  so  far  as  I 
can  understand  it.  The  fairy  child  is  initiated  at  the 
age  of  puberty  and  is  then  competent  to  pair:  He 
is  not  long  in  selecting  his  companion;  nor  does  she 
often  seem  to  refuse  him,  though  mating  is  done  by 
liking  in  all  cases  and  has  nothing  whatever  to  do 
with  the  parents.  It  must  be  remembered,  of  course, 
that  they  are  subject  to  the  primitive  law  from  which 


A  SUMMARY  CHAPTER  237 

man  only  has  freed  himself.  They  frequently  fight 
for  the  possession  of  the  female,  or  measure  their 
powers  against  each  other;  and  she  goes  with  the 
victor  or  the  better  man.1  I  don't  know  any  case 
where  the  advance  has  been  made  by  the  female. 
Pairing  may  be  for  a  season  or  for  a  period  or  for 
life.  I  don't  think  there  is  any  rule;  but  in  all  cases 
of  separation  the  children  are  invariably  divided — 
the  males  to  the  father,  the  females  to  the  mother. 
After  initiation  the  children  owe  no  allegiance  to 
their  parents.  Love  with  them  is  a  wild  and  won- 
derful rapture  in  all  its  manifestations,  and  without 
regard  necessarily  to  sex.  I  never,  in  my  life,  saw 
a  more  beautiful  expression  of  it  than  in  the  two 
females  whom  I  saw  greet  and  embrace  on  Parlia- 
ment Hill.  Their  motions  to  each  other,  their  looks 
and  their  clinging  were  beyond  expression  tender  and 
swift.  Nor  shall  I  ever  forget  the  pair  of  Oreads  in 
the  snow,  of  whose  meeting  I  have  said  as  much  as 
is  possible  in  a  previous  chapter.  It  must  be  re- 
membered that  I  am  dealing  with  an  order  of  Nature 
which  knows  nothing  of  our  shames  and  qualms, 
which  is  not  only  unconscious  of  itself  but  uncon- 
scious of  anything  but  its  immediate  desire;  but  I 

1 1  saw  an  extraordinary  case  of  that,  where  a  male  came  suddenly 
before  a  mated  pair,  asserted  himself  and  took  her  to  himself  inconti- 
nent. There  was  no  fighting.  He  stood  and  looked.  The  period  of 
suspense  was  breathless  but  not  long. 


238  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

am  dealing  with  it  to  the  understanding  of  a  very 
different  order,  to  whom  it  is  not  enough  to  do  a 
thing  which  seems  good  in  its  own  eyes,  but  requisite 
also  to  be  sure  of  the  approbation  of  its  fellow-men. 
I  should  create  a  wrong  impression  were  I  to  enlarge 
upon  this  branch  of  my  subject;  I  should  make  my 
readers  call  fairies  shameful  when  as  a  fact  they 
know  not  the  meaning  of  shame,  or  reprove  them  for 
shamelessness  when,  indeed,  they  are  luckily  with- 
out it.  I  shall  make  bold  to  say  once  for  all  that  as 
it  is  absurd  to  call  the  lightning  cruel,  so  it  is  absurd 
to  call  shameful  those  who  know  nothing  about  the 
deformity.  No  one  can  know  what  love  means  who 
has  not  seen  the  fairies  at  their  loving — and  so  much 
for  that. 

The  laws  which  govern  the  appearance  of  fairies 
to  mankind  or  their  commerce  with  men  and  women 
seem  to  be  conditioned  by  the  ability  of  men  to  per- 
ceive them.  The  senses  of  men  are  figuratively 
speaking  lenses  coloured  or  shaped  by  personality. 
How  are  we  to  know  the  form  and  pressure  of  the 
great  river  Enipeus,  whose  shape,  for  the  love  of 
Tyro,  Poseidon  took?  And  so  the  accounts  of  fairy 
appearance,  of  fairy  shape,  size,  vesture,  will  vary 
in  the  measure  of  the  faculty  of  the  percipient.  To 
me,  personally,  the  fairies  seem  to  go  in  gowns  of 
yellow,  grey,  russet  or  green,  but  mostly  in  yellow 


A  SUMMARY  CHAPTER  239 

or  grey.  The  Oreads  or  Spirits  of  the  hills  vary. 
In  winter  their  vesture  is  yellow,  in  summer  it  is  ash- 
green.  The  Dryad  whom  I  saw  was  in  grey,  the  col- 
our of  the  lichened  oak-tree  out  of  which  she  gleamed. 
The  fairies  in  a  Norman  forest  had  long  brown  gar- 
ments, very  close  and  clinging,  to  the  ankles.  They 
were  belted,  and  their  hair  was  loose.  But  that  is 
invariable.  I  never  saw  a  fairy  with  snooded  or  tied 
up  hair.  They  are  always  barefooted.  Despoina 
is  the  only  fairy  I  ever  saw  in  any  other  colour  than 
those  I  have  named.  She  always  wears  blue,  of  the 
colour  of  the  shadows  on  a  moonlight  night,  very 
beautiful.  She,  too,  wears  sandals,  which  they  say 
the  Satyrs  weave  for  her  as  a  tribute.  They  lay 
them  down  where  she  has  been  or  is  likely  to  be;  for 
they  never  see  her. 

But  this  matter  of  vesture  is  really  a  digression: 
I  have  more  important  matter  in  hand,  and  that  is 
to  consider  the  intercourse  between  fairy  and  mortal, 
as  it  is  governed  by  appearance.  How  does  a  man, 
for  instance,  gain  a  fairy- wife?  How  does  a  woman 
give  herself  to  a  fairy-lover?  I  have  given  a  careful 
account  of  a  case  of  each  sort  in  answer.  Young 
King  gained  his  wife  by  capture;  Lady  Emily  Rich 
followed  her  lover  at  a  look. 

But  this  does  not  really  touch  the  point,  which  is, 
rather,  how  was  Lady  Emily  Rich  brought  or  put 


240  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

into  such  a  relation  with  Quidnunc  that  she  could 
receive  a  look  from  him?  How  was  King  put  into 
such  a  relation  with  Mabilla  that  he  could  take  her 
away  from  her  own  people?  There  must  have  been 
an  incarnation,  you  would  say;  and  I  should  agree 
with  you.  Now  in  Andrew  King's  case  there  was 
belief  to  go  upon,  the  belief  common  to  all  the  Cheviot 
side,  handed  down  to  it  from  untold  generations  and 
never  lost;  coupled  with  that,  there  was  an  intense 
and  probably  long-standing  desire  in  the  young  man 
himself  to  realise  and  substantiate  his  belief.  He  had 
brooded  over  it,  his  fancy  had  gone  to  work  upon  it; 
he  loved  his  Mabilla  before  ever  he  saw  her;  his  love, 
it  was,  which  evoked  her.  And  I  take  it  as  proved 
— at  any  rate  it  is  proved  to  my  own  satisfaction — 
that  faith  coupled  with  desire  has  power — the  power 
of  suggestion  it  is  called — over  Spirit  as  it  certainly 
has  over  Matter.  If  I  say,  then,  that  Andrew  King 
evoked  Mabilla  By- the- Wood,  called  her  out  of  her 
own  world  into  his,  I  assert  two  things:  the  first, 
that  she  was  really  at  one  time  in  her  own  world,  the 
second,  that  she  was  afterward  really  in  his.  The 
second  my  own  senses  can  vouch  for.  That  she  was 
fetched  back  by  the  King  of  the  Wood  and  recap- 
tured by  Andrew  are  minor  points.  Grant  the  first 
taking  and  there  is  no  difficulty  about  them. 
Mr.  Lawson  gives  cases  from  Greece  which  point 


A  SUMMARY  CHAPTER  241 

to  certain  ritual  performances  on  the  part  of  the 
lover;  the  snatching,  for  instance,  of  a  handkerchief 
from  the  beloved,  of  which  the  preservation  is  tanta- 
mount to  the  permanence  of  the  subsequent  union. 
He  has  a  curious  case,  too,  of  a  peasant  who  married 
a  nymph  and  gave  her  a  child  but  could  not  make  her 
speak  to  him.  He  consulted  a  wise  woman  who 
advised  him  to  threaten  her  with  the  fire  for  the 
baby  if  she  would  not  talk.  He  did  it  and  the  charm 
worked.  The  Nymph  spoke  fiercely  to  him,  "You 
dog,  leave  my  child  alone,"  she  said,  and  seized  it 
from  him,  and  with  it  disappeared.  That  is  parallel 
to  my  case  where  love  made  Mabilla  speak.  It  was 
love  for  her  husband,  to  be  sure;  but  she  had  then 
no  children. 

Mr.  Wentz  gets  no  evidence  of  fairy-wives  from 
Ireland,  but  a  great  number  out  of  Wales.  One  of 
them  is  the  beautiful  tale  of  Einion  and  Olwen  (p.  161) 
which  has  many  points  of  resemblance  with  mine 
from  the  Border.  Einion  also  seems  to  have  met 
the  King  of  the  Wood.  Like  Andrew  King  he  was 
kissed  by  the  nymphs,  but  only  by  one  of  them;  but 
unlike  him  he  stayed  in  their  country  for  a  year  and 
a  day,  then  went  back  to  his  own  people,  and  finally 
returned  for  his  fairy-wife.  Taliesin  was  their  son. 
No  conditions  seem  to  have  been  made. 

So  much  for  fairy  brides,  but  now  for  fairy  grooms. 


242  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

I  have  two  cases  to  add  to  that  of  Quidnunc,  but  be- 
fore giving  them,  let  me  say  of  his  affair  that  since 
the  suggestion  there  seems  to  have  come  from  him 
to  the  woman,  the  incarnation,  if  such  there  were, 
must  have  been  voluntary.  Evocation  was  not  in- 
strumental in  it.  He  appeared  before  her,  as  she 
had  appeared  before  others,  many  others,  including 
myself,  and  his  subsequent  commerce  with  her  was 
achieved  by  his  own  personal  force.  You  may  say 
that  she  had  been  prepared  to  see  him  by  belief 
and  desire,  by  belief  and  desire  acting  upon  a  mind 
greatly  distressed  and  probably  overwrought.  You 
may  say  that  she  saw  what  she  ardently  desired 
to  see.  It  is  quite  true,  I  cannot  deny  it;  but  I 
point  to  his  previous  manifestations,  and  leave  it 
there. 

Here  is  a  tale  to  the  purpose  which  I  got  out  of 
Worcestershire.  Two  girls,  daughter  and  niece  of  a 
farmer,  bosom  friends  and  bed-fellows,  became  in- 
volved in  a  love-affair  and,  desperate  of  a  happy 
issue,  attempted  a  charm  to  win  their  lovers  back. 
On  All  Hallow  Eve,  two  hours  before  the  sun,  they 
went  into  the  garden,  barefoot,  in  their  nightgowns 
and  circled  about  a  stone  which  was  believed  to  be 
bewitched.1  They  used  certain  words,  the  Lord's 

1  It  is  said  to  have  been  the  base  of  a  Roman  terminal  statue,  but  I 
have  not  seen  it. 


A  SUMMARY  CHAPTER  243 

prayer  backward  or  what  not,  and  had  an  appari- 
tion. A  brown  man  came  out  of  the  bushes  and 
looked  at  them  for  some  time.  Then  he  came  to 
them,  paralysed  as  they  may  have  been,  and  peering 
closely  into  the  face  of  one  of  them  gave  her  a  flower 
and  disappeared.  That  same  evening  they  kept  the 
Hallow  E'en  with  the  usual  play,  half-earnest,  half- 
game,  and,  among  other  things  which  they  did, 
"peascodded"  the  girls.  The  game  is  a  very  old 
one,  and  consists  in  setting  the  victim  in  a  chair 
with  her  back  to  the  door  while  her  companions  rub 
her  down  with  handfuls  of  pea-shucks.  During  this 
ceremony  if  any  man  enter  the  room  he  is  her  lover, 
and  she  is  handed  over  to  him.  This  was  done,  then, 
to  one  of  the  girls  who  had  dared  the  dawn  magic; 
and  in  the  midst  of  it  a  brown  man,  dressed  in  a 
smock-frock  tied  up  with  green  ribbons,  appeared, 
standing  in  the  door.  He  took  the  girl  by  the  hand 
and  led  her  out  of  the  house.  She  was  seen  no  more 
that  night,  nor  for  many  days  afterward,  though 
her  parents  and  neighbours  hunted  her  far  and  wide. 
By-and-by  she  was  reported  at  a  village  some  ten 
or  twelve  miles  off  on  the  Shropshire  border,  where 
some  shepherds  had  found  her  wandering  the  hill. 
She  was  brought  home  but  could  give  no  good  ac- 
count of  herself,  or  would  not.  She  said  that  she 
had  followed  her  lover,  married  him,  and  lost  him. 


244  LORE  OF  PROSERPINE 

Nothing  would  comfort  her,  nothing  could  keep  her 
in  the  house.  She  was  locked  in,  but  made  her  way 
out;  she  was  presently  sent  to  the  lunatic  asylum, 
but  escaped  from  that.  Then  she  got  away  for  good 
and  all  and  never  came  back  again.  No  trace  of 
her  body  could  be  found.  What  are  you  to  make  of 
a  thing  of  the  sort?  I  give  it  for  what  it  is  worth, 
with  this  note  only,  that  the  apparition  was  manifest 
to  several  persons,  though  not,  I  fancy,  to  any  but 
the  girls  concerned  in  the  peascodding. 

The  Willow-lad's  is  another  tale  of  the  same  kind. 
It  was  described  in  1787  by  the  Reverend  Samuel 
Jordan  in  the  Gentleman's  Magazine,  if  I  am  not 
mistaken. 

The  Willow-lad  was  an  apparition  which  was  be- 
lieved to  appear  in  a  withy-bed  on  the  banks  of  the 
Ouse  near  Huntingdon.  He  could  only  be  seen  at 
dusk,  and  only  by  women.  He  had  a  sinister  repu- 
tation, and  to  say  of  a  girl  that  she  had  been  to  the 
withy-bed  was  a  broad  hint  that  she  was  no  better 
than  she  should  be.  Yet,  according  to  Mr.  Jordan, 
the  girls  did  go  there  in  numbers,  and  to  such  effect 
that  by  an  order  of  the  Town  Council  the  place  was 
stubbed  up.  You  had  to  go  alone  to  the  withy-bed 
between  sunset  and  sunrise  of  a  moonless  night,  to 
lay  your  hand  upon  a  certain  stump  and  say,  and  in 
a  loud  voice: — 


A  SUMMARY  CHAPTER  245 

Willow-boy,  Willow-boy,  come  to  me  soon, 
After  the  sun  and  before  the  moon. 
Hide  the  stars  and  cover  my  head; 
Let  no  man  see  me  when  I  be  wed. 

One  would  like  to  know  whether  the  Willow-lad's 
powers  perished  with  the  withy-bed.  They  should 
not,  but  should  have  been  turned  to  malicious  uses. 
There  are  many  cases  in  Mr.  Lawson's  book  of  the 
malefical  effect  upon  the  Dryads  of  cutting  down  the 
trees  whose  spirit  they  are.  And  most  people  know 
Landor's  idyll,  or  if  they  don't,  they  should. 

There  are  queer  doings  under  the  sun  as  well  as 
under  the  moon.  A  man  may  travel  far  without 
leaving  his  arm-chair  by  the  fire,  in  countries  where 
no  tourist-tickets  obtain,  and  see  stranger  things 
than  are  recorded  by  Herr  Baedeker. 

The  waies  through  which  my  weary  steps  I  guide 

In  this  delightful  land' of  Faery 

Are  so  exceeding  spacious  and  wyde, 

And  sprinckled  with  such  sweet  variety 

Of  all  that  pleasant  is  to  eare  or  eye, 

That  I,  nigh  ravisht  with  rare  thoughts'  delight, 

My  tedious  travele  doe  forget  thereby; 

And  when  I  gin  to  feele  decay  of  might, 

It  strength  to  me  supplies,  and  chears  my  dulleM  spright. 

THE  END 


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